yelling in the night.

today is the worst day.
his sisters guide him through it.
his mom shows him the facts.
it is the day he realizes his dad just wasn't.

i wait

i too am in need of music,
gentle and pure pouring over my fretful fumbling fingertips.
i am in need of freedom from fearful nights and damp days.
i am breathing smoke thick with longing,
inhaling deep, feeling wearing, wary, worn, weak.

it's been going on for weeks.

too tired, trembling, timid to step up and say stop.
i am no braveheart, only a cowardly lion.
i wait with no great certainty that i am not just stalling.

sonnet

 I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!

There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep. 

- elizabeth bishop