It is true.
I can talk for hours to myself,
much as I did as a child.
Like Jackie talking to his train
and living out destinies
up and down the track.
We are meant to sing,
to dance,
clap our hands.
I celebrate the rhododendron
outside my window
with its pink flowers.
The morning that holds it,
and the air
that has a thousand bands
of frequency,
songs, talking.
Much ado about nothing and everything,
and the universe singing to me.
My ears picking up here and there,
notes, rhythms, mantras,
echoes, conversation,
to add my two cents,
write some sentences.
Speak into the ether
and say good-by to poems.
It’s a din outside,
a concert at my desk,
a playground in the street.
And behind it,
the purity of a great silence,
from which
a whisper sounded,
let it begin,
and we’ve been carrying on
ever since.