- Books, Literature, and Writing
All Things Mundane
Perhaps it all began when the rains started
what they would call the Monsoons in certain
desert areas, the storms that come after
strong winds full of dust, pebbles and rough slivers
of plants and trees
flow down the city streets.
There is a certain silent cacophony
sometimes in memory, white lines of surf still speak
when you're moving in a vehicle with the windows up.
And so it must be this way sometimes, driving along
through the quiet, the white lights of oncoming drivers
approaching and slipping into your rearview mirror like small red atoms.
Outside, the sun is shining, there are people in the park across
the way and the town clock above the café with the round and
tiled tables casts shadows through the short trees around it.
It could be spring or fall, some season when the rains are appropriate
and always make me think of your quaint voice.
I cannot hear what you are saying, but I know it is always succinct and eloquent;
the noise the moon makes when
it is slightly embraced by the azure cirrus clouds around it.
There are the noises of laughter outside my window.
The clinking of glasses from the restaurant
which come to me like a diminutive breeze.
The hum of the lights from the sign on the theatre marquee
whose screens hold pictures I will never see -- at least with you in the audience.
And always the monsoons, the winds followed by
the strong rains which touch the city streets
andthe water that flows through the thoroughfares and
the grasses of houses with silver faucets that drip water.
Water in crystal glasses and the water from the city hydrants
and the dead volcanic crater lakes and
the water frozen at the bottom of the world and
the water which is here now in front of me
and was there at the beginning of the world,
a shallow pool in the void,
waiting for that one voice to speak it to life