In the Moment
I learn not to take notes, absorbed into the song. Someone
singing in my eyes no longer hurts. There is moisture enough.
The glint still chaperones contentment. Routinely I divide acceptance
by mutuality. I have been here for miles, no one is coming home.
A crop of soldiers, no new dread. How simple morning was before
I knew the fingering for F#. Now I execute young banjo riffs. Then lute,
and without hesitation, I observe the evidence on staves beginto hold
a melody released from reflex after circling the chapel where
I learned to heal.
Her face upon the screen years after several exhibitions of perfection
Sheila E. Murphy