Gone missing

Kindergarten Wall

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A3w5SsgPuCM 

Here it is.

It is difficult to know

What to write today.

Less than 24 hours now.

The cat is sound asleep

On her hair supplies

In the middle

Of the living room floor.

The daughter

Is out to breakfast

With friends.

Yesterday she listened

To John McCutcheon

The Kindergarten Wall

Over and over

At home,

In the car.

We sang the chorus together

On our way

To pick up one last thing

From Marshall’s.

Less than 24 hours now.

The cat is now asleep

Next to the bins

Which will go under her bed.

She sings upstairs

We will miss the singing.  Still, she will arrive to sing again.

This

The summer before she leaves

For college,

She sings upstairs

Before she leaves

For one more week

Of camp,

Only to return again

This Friday

To sing upstairs

And leave

And arrive

To sing again,

And leave

And arrive

And sing.

Taking turns

I did think about going into the office today.  It seems the better part to allow the cardinal to sing the day into fullness outside.  I may take my turn tomorrow or the next day.

I hear the bird outside the front door.

The cardinal

Will need to take this day,

Sing it into fullness,

Take its turn.

Keep it up.

That crested cardinal carries

So much more music

Than the 3 and 4 AM

Robins.

I take a break

With my summer cold

Inside.

I may offer such joy

Tomorrow

Or perhaps the day after.

Perhaps then

I may offer such joy

In fullness

Take my turn.

Keep it up.

No callus

I believe we are always singing, somehow.  Perhaps it*s just the accompaniment that changes. 

In his collection of Bengali poems, Gitanjali, Rabindranath Tagore writes that the song he wanted to sing has never happened because he has spent his days 'stringing and unstringing' his instrument.

Source:  Joyce Rupp, OSM, May I Have This Dance?  (courtesy of Inward/Outward.org)

I played guitar for years.

Now it sits upstairs behind the chair.

Sometimes,

Not very often,

I pick it up.

My heart has things

It wants to express.

Of course the guitar

Is always

Out of tune.

Most of the time I spend

Getting it to a place

I can play

Again.

Then my fingers

Remind me,

I have not played

For years.

They have not retained

Their callus.

My fingers are soft.

The strings leave dents.

Still I sing.

I dreamed I bought a flute

In Iceland.

I planned to learn to play

On my way home.

I returned

Flute in hand.

I do not know the first thing

About flutes.

I imagine I play anyway.

I have a vivid imagination.

There is music

In my bones.

My heart has things

It wants to express.

There is music

In my heart.

Still no callus

On my fingers.