feeling the humid fog laying heavily on me,
I marveled at the expansive country
and waited for the rain.
I had heard music coming from a distant, hidden valley
that revealed a low, buried longing
with quiet, interrupted words. Not sung, but breathed out.
It was cultural participation,
having never existed in flesh, or been represented bodily.
Far away, they marched and sung their slow lament,
it was a sorrow that whined and twisted
deep within the bellies of all those within earshot,
and though I never saw their faces
I felt their expressions as if they were transposed on me.
With their immortal verse sinking deep within me,
I sang a song by your father's pond,
with no words; just stuttered, knowing breaths-
Just a sentiment, drifting in and out of consciousness-
coming in and out of the light-
interrupted by the humid fog laying heavily on us,
by your father's pond.
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