The Danforth Anchor

You cannot sing
if you make no noise. . .
or can you?

The beat your heart
the breath your lungs
the stretch your jaw
the flex you get
like a balloon,
when your tongue you ply
and feel the space within your throat
the like you share with frog or goat
perhaps may music make–

even when you do not try.
And your sundry Sunday parts
cross in a mood quite contrary
and don’t see eye to eye,

and somehow
a flood of things you feel and think
rush ’round your head,
and while you spin and whirl,
fear may set in
and have you completely swayed
that any second you might sink. . .

And this bespeaks a time
when, the task to sing
needs not your lips,
but your welcoming soft firm arms
to hold yourself,
as you allow for
such open mind,
you walk right through the gates of fear
and look and feel and listen within
and too, without,

to all that’s been,
and everything both near and far
high,
low,
upper
nether,
each which way. . .
here,
there,
now,
then,
back
and ahead,
with your far-reachng, bright sixth-sense
that ties you,
through and through
to the vasty everything
that has no end,

and, as you wait in quiet,
perchance when you shall least expect it,

perhaps your voice,
will in its usual
sound and glory
break from your heart and gut and lips
to hit the air,

where is finds your
and maybe some outsider’s
ear,

which lets you know
you’re somehow singing
still,
but as if for the first time,
and yet, with the same abundant joy
you always knew
when you sang
your absolutely favorite song
for the umpteenth time,
again.