Talking to Myself

Some say things are more beautiful when silent.
But what is new and hard, if there are sounds
of birds, is like a camera turned. No violent

noise betrays what hearts can hear, what's found.
One hundred pelicans rising from the water
make a plain of love. By reason bound

to home, I make a silent crane, a daughter,
from folded hands. I wish I were that bird.
I could say 'I have a life to build,' slaughter

dreams; I could fall into place, be heard.
But no. If I did that, no birds would fly inside.

Copyright 2003 C. J. Sage All rights reserved.
first appeared in The In Posse Review home