By Julia Markish
SCORE
Listen! What does it all count for?
You keep craning your neck to spot
the giant scoreboard in the sky. Only
the delusional keep score, their
rulebooks marked by felt-tipped lies.
You count words, miles, hours, dollars,
but they don’t add up. They are sinking
bricks in your delicate pool. They stack
along its bottom, a useless mass,
slowly forcing your water over its edge.
You find dead pine needles, and hold them up
as yardsticks. They lie in mounds, and you root
for each as if for a prize, never once
glancing up to catch the rays of sun
streaming through the boughs.
You hold your breath, waiting for the waves
to pass, for the tightness to ease, for the score
to change. Your attention’s splinters cling
to surfaces like lint, their original tapestry
shredded and forgotten.
Listen: life’s true score murmurs past your
eardrums, a distant inner symphony. Precious
chords constantly announce some new
miracle: your breaths, your sighs, your
yawns, your cries – they are its thrum.
So what, if there are more like this? They
turn to face the wind like seagulls, a flock
of true believers in the scoreboard in the sky.
They preen and relish their sleek feathers,
Louboutin heels sinking deeper in the sand.
But the seeds the wind
carries only ever sprout in the soft
earth beyond the barren beach.
What are a few ruffled feathers
to live amongst the blooms?
Republished with permission. Featured Image Photo by Marnee Wohlfert on Unsplash
