In the new moon
I heard the other
side of silence:

Nothingness rising
to the summit of all
there is.

It was born in this
furnace of giddy emptiness:

one note,
one dot of blinding knowledge
against the aimless void,

a diamond on ebony,
a new life spinning out of
a blind forever,

spraying shattered crystal,
then waves of sun and moon
and everything precious,
falling and rising
and sculpting . . .

music.

And worlds.

And all that is unknowable,
unreachable and perfect
is contained in rhythm,
the web we get lost in
on our way to infinity.

Clothed in a night
dripping stars,
I heard the ancestral drums:

Heavens's floor was just a stage
for the heartbeat
crashing to earth
then back to where we came from,

and all the answers were there,
but life stood between us:
just one short life and
one illusion between me
and understanding.

In the waterfall I heard
the ancient strings,
the first of many worlds
and the first notes
the river learned
in a burst of unbearable love,

now wandering in song,
now endlessly born

in the beginning
and the end of time.


Patricia Joan Jones