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.
