When is a sound not a sound,
but a feeling?
When is a presence so still,
yet quivering with purpose?
I sat in a humming place,
the flight and landing of the bees.
Between my ears, so much music
is battling for real estate —
so I invited the bees to fill the space
with their neutral, universal tone.
They ignore me
and simply do what they do;
I am pleasantly null
in their presence,
cleansed and ready
to attend to the next flower.
I would miss taste, it’s true,
but by then I will have had my fill
of delicacies, and will eat plain stew.
The touch of a lover, the thrill,
that would be hard to kiss goodbye.
But at least I will not feel winter’s chill.
Scents, however, are the means whereby
memory’s pathways collide and collude.
NB: write poems of remembrance, should that sense die.
Now sight: think of all the beauty you’ve viewed
and assemble a mental scrapbook of sorts.
Not ideal, but a comfort in your solitude.
Ah! but hearing. Mostly, music exhorts
me to insist: I cannot live without that gift,
which all other senses merely support.