A Memory of What Is

Words gather to lean together
By the windows this afternoon,
Filling the light of the bedroom

With wings no longer whispering.
Nothing is as still as meaning.
A phrase reassembles the gold.

Another phrase glows in muted
Understandings of slabs of blue.
Another phrase folds brilliant warmth

In the windowsills’ powdered dust.
They are napping. They’ve gone to sleep.
The words can rest. They’ve done their work.

On the other side of the glass,
There are the waves of birds’ singing,
Carrying pure information

Over filtered traffic murmurs,
But the sleeping words don’t listen.
On this side, sunlight’s unperturbed.