dear child,
When you run your back is butterfly wings
the hiss of a hurricane as it touches down heavy
but lord knows you are no cyclone
no force freight training through a town
you frown and bear the weight of thunder
echoing through doors and hallways
of tiny dollhouse dreams.
Sitting at the edge of the banister
you pump scripture into your brain
while friction grows louder in smashed plates
in memories of infant swallowed hard like sidewalk chalk
or taken easy like stained glass shadows on
cobblestone streets.
We retreat to cocoons
when the loud is no longer music.
Soundwave slaps ricochet off silk-
reminding us of the wholeness of sound
as we plea for unexpected silence.
For the secrets of metamorphosis to expose us
until the day we can once again,
beautifully as magic,
pray heaven back into our bones.
