I begin songs over and over.
So much beginning,
keeping the track of endings.
I hear my father making tea.
First day, every day, then gone.
I wonder where the endings go.
Profound closets.
Trackless winters of snow.
The sigh of air, entering the
openness of windows.
The noise of birds
that annoyed me with their noise.
Now, silence,
a catastrophe of time.
The cracking of the bell.
So I invent what the birds
gave to me.
The dream of my father’s tea,
spilled now.
Where is the noise, waking?
I put a pillow on my ears
pretending the birds still wake me.
I regret loneliness,
what was is joy,
the axis of my life enduring.