Today, I sit in the partial darkness
Softly stringing my instrument,
And bowing deep before the music
This is where it all begins;Silence around my fingers,The wind, all whispers, in my ears,
The grave internal beat
Is this too where God began?
Not with smoke or fire,Not with invectives or rage,
But with a slow hum inside
A rustle, like wings arising?An outcry, like the voice of joy?
And did he form in the metaphor
Of his mouthThat initial booming sound
Which spread its wings
And sailed down the centuries
Breaking here and thereInto the hands of Mozart?
Into Dylan’s bleeding voice?
Into the sad, side-street sax?
The same sound that continues to sail
Right into my roomWhere I sitPiecing it together,
As though by grasping a single star
You could possibly understand
The mystery of light.