“Now I will do nothing but listen,
To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute toward it.
I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of flames, clack of sticks cooking my meals. . .
Now I will do nothing but listen—this song
in sunshine sweet,
of mockingbird and robin’s trills
the crow’s caws and hawk’s high screech–
the pulsing life in slapping beats
against the river’s flow
the trees’ arboreal sighs
(slow and steady)
I sing the body electric,
we drift, grow, go
connected to, all part of
one, none, molecules ignited,
the ash of stars
under streetlights and moonbeams–
Today is the anniversary of Walt Whitman’s birth on May 31, 1819. There have been events all year, and many this week, though somehow, I’ve missed them all.