the sound of our own voice
reverberates within
without another listening
but if all we hear
is our own voice
will another ever answer?

The wind whips up
a storm is nigh
lightning flashes in the sky
and it flashes, too, within his eyes
rising from its brooding form to fly
as thunder builds in roaring volume
until the skies themselves explode

dropping weight of rain and snow
ice melting in the flows
of rivers raging
through the gorge
between two cliffs
so he, within, must rage
to span and gauge
the depth and width
of his elementary division

for high and low
can only come to meet
upon the plains
where rivers run
rearranging earthen form
into a pond
where once again they gather
but this time peacefully
and now the willows weep
while daisies sway and dance
upon a clear, warm springtime breeze

yet deeper still he travels
for it is at the deepest points
where water meets the earth
that the willows roots
find sustenance and worth
as they spread their limbs
into an opening door
that leads us to
an other world of love

where whispers echo
on the breeze
in tones so soft and sweet
he cannot help
but still his mind
and hush the flames
of fires burning

when he stops
just finally stops
and learns to listen . . .


Copyright© 2000 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .