Mom

And now wacky am I, I thank you, mother, for 

the days I take no pill;

the oak table that folds upon itself,

a hinge, a turn, a hidden box 

containing nothing, a silence left to me alone;

the vaporous song echoing here from the 

dusty floor of a small house

in a village like so many.

I thank you that I somehow sing 

though rhythmns and their verses 

keep note and meaning but to me, 

through the doubt that song to my self 

in silence be song at all.