Some days, some weeks, it is more difficult to hear my own voice underneath the others. It seems not to matter if I speak. I know this is not true. It is always a matter of listening and speaking. Both.
Some days
Like this one
I have to stay away
From other voices
So I can hear my own,
Find the part that connects,
The rhizome underground
Like the lily of the valley
Behind the garage.
It still finds its way
Through the dirt
Behind the last remaining peony.
I forget there are flowers
Back there
Unless I remember
Unless I take the time
To look.
The lily of the valley has now moved
Underground
Behind the last remaining peony.
It has moved, yes,
But remains true.
Soon it will sing its particular fragrance,
No matter who is listening.
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