Faded Maps - Meditation in St. Moritz

~ "There is such a thing as the droning of silence." ~ Martin Buber

I have bet everything -
my life, my life -
on this drifting blue, this

one-note sound of burning-silver flute that
calls along nerve passageways, calls

through my atoms like
birds of a kind, shifting, poised in my sky of tears,
calculations, remembered days,

and the quiet of love - as if we could speak of love, this
whiteness fed by white sounds of rain on cliffs and rivers,

a quiet freed by all forgetting as I
stroke and glide, stroke and glide. My travel
through an atmosphere left behind with the tune

still calling through these jet trails
that fade out through the blue -

blue that trails out of reach while tucked
inside my shirt, my skin,
the delicate nature of my blood.

I drift and swim the turquoise, toppling-down current,
river, breeze with choral tones -
if we can rightly speak of such sound,

my home, this
slow deluge, this
uprising of joy.
 

© Tim Bellows