The silence is deafening, A feather falls then brings A crescendo of brushes On the wooden floorboards. The hands of the clock, That used to silently Move around unnoticed, Echo through the emptiness. I never realized the draft That comes from the East, That window that never tired Of seeing the sun rising. At dusk, the sun slowly hides Tiny footsteps scramble Back to the holes in the dark Squirrels and chipmunks alive. Our memories weaken and die Muted with age and Father time, Emotions fading by running away, I will stay listening until next life.
#TinySpringPoem with Beth Kempton | Day 7
Reflection:
This poem was composed while listening to Lana del Ray:
What types of sounds put you in moments of reflection?
Here’s my current favorite from Beyoncé’s new album:
👀 Read more of my Poetry.
Jen, a beautiful moment of reflection, took me to a spiritual place, and reflected for me the mood I needed as I write my novel, words that are just “in time” with the story I’m writing. (Hope this makes sense ☺️) 🫶🏻