djembe on the carpet

lies in the wobble zone
between silence and energy
relies on the temp human
to tilt for sound
clumsy but hopeful
of memories in song
spoken in the language of hands
distinct from the worry of minds
of dances in staccato
untangled from hearbeat
of a tune louder than the nerve
in the temple, closer each day
to the final beat
of music earth and sky
threading an unknown inventory
of careless discarded breaths
careful saved breaths
with faith in the age of feet
and fireworks


All you can give us is what life is about from your point of view. You are not going to be able to give us the plans to the submarine. Life is not a submarine. There are no plans
                                                                                                              Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird