A wave immerses me, covers my head
My toes are drenched, I more than dipped
Into this asthma of the soul ----
I gasp for breath as iron lead
Swallows my lungs, esophagus, my lips,
The air that opens a black hole.
I try to think of things to come
Of springtime sun on trees and sprouts
And gardening flowers and baking bread,
But Present worries are my home
With snow in April amidst my doubts,
In place of flowers, ice instead.
Singing is my thermomater
It tells me when I'm up and down,
Singing sweet tunes or silencing them.
I look to song as lips to water,
In sweet music, myself I drown.
My parched soul drinking from the den.
Can I, may I, find rest, or peace?
(What are those words anyways!)
Consolation only comes---
When all is buried underneath
And years are gone, and past are days.
All will be done, when we are home.