Telephone

Telephone
by Jason Motsch


There is an undercurrent of muddy water,
here behind my eyes;  a thin veil of ice in the air 
distorting the lenses of these ancient spectacles.
Looking over at the rusted telephone
Hanging on the wall, I take my fist, smashing  until it's tattered and disjointed.
 Echoes of old conversations...
Now dewdrops blanket the floor and the muddy water
begins to fade when suddenly,
A voice from the dangling receiver calls out shrilly,
Announcing a melody that starts to fill the room.
A marriage of an an ending of being blind to the beginning of
Eyes washed clean with love, Creation begins
to form the seamless Now.
The dirt-laden, viscous liquid in the floor solidifies
and becomes a marvelous, verdant bed of down.
The frozen air becomes a warm, inviting ambrosia.
The cold floor is now burning with a field of daisies 
and orchids.  
I see the present through my God within.
Only  the dilapidated phone remains,
as things do, in a past littered with 
old voices.

I refuse to listen anymore.