Our fingers weave silence like the hands on a piano
before they touch the keys. The music held complete, waiting.
Over what instrument do we hover? Whose song?
It sprouts like corn in a field. The summer sound of growth.
On the edge of the song I find an old tree
And a treehouse. Lights twinkle inside.
I am building a stone wall at the trunk, New England style,
Piling loose slab upon slab, spending hours on the balance
Of space and solid. Grave and strong. It will never fall!
You walk out of the song and step over it.