is measured out so sweet
in lamb bleats and liquid birdsong.
Sometimes you hear it,
an echo at the end of a sunset
and the truth of it dances in your core.
Sometimes the pulse of Earth
swells and swings as slow as a mountain grows
then rolls itself down as sand to the sea.
Sometimes it vibrates like honeybees
or makes the hollow sound of loss
or keeps the cool silence of fossils.
Someday I’ll hand my pulse back to the world.
I’ll go willingly.
Listen for me at sunset, or where redwing blackbird
clasps the cattails and sings
and sings.
J. Pratt-Walter, (c) 2019
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