When flags relax at half-mast, will we be ready with them to rise?
When the sparks of insolence weed gardens of themselves, will we create a new shared home?
When homonyms parse themselves out of likeness, will there be new bones?
When there is only weather for the birds and bodies of the forgotten, will we seed light?
When the space between quiet and intonation fills with thought will there still be voice?
When children invent new clouds will we allow our hands to inhabit a different dance?
When imagined wise teachers emerge will we recognize their faces?
When we decide the earth is ours and equally not our own will we find new places to roam?
When skin tones accept the moon as kin to sun will we find golden nests?
When we learn to have been separate will we clasp shared history to share?
When we finish practicing cadenzas will we codify magnetic earth?
When we perform the baseline will our hearing faculty reprise foundations of first birds?
When we decide to retrieve our childhood will we locate matching softness?
When breath leaves wind behind will leaves still be trembling?
Sheila Murphy has been writing for a good deal of time and lives her poetry. She walks prolifically, just as she writes. She writes, “I will spare you the biographical details and emphasize that I’m a kind of jet propulsion engine filled with joie de vivre! :)”