January 20, 2009

by Michael Kiesow Moore

Before this day ushered in by destiny,
how long did we hold our collective breath?
The trees themselves held back their exhale.

Coyotes stopped serenading the moon.
The gay grasshopper put away his fiddle and donned black.
Instead of lullabies, mothers gave their children tears.

The distraught whippoorwill forgot her song.
Actors dropped their lines and sat down in the hushed audience.
Babies emerged from wombs silent, accusing.

Opera houses throughout the lands locked their doors.
A cellist broke a string and never played again.
The flamenco dancer fell out of time, then just fell.

The rock star ambled off the stage and even the radios grew quiet.
If children started to sing, they were told to hush.
On the streets they stopped saying please and thank you.

The perplexed stars asked each other, what happened?
Poets lost their metaphors, some could only write in verbs.
We all know what happened to the blues in New Orleans.

Then on this day ushered in by destiny, a sigh fills the world.
Listen to the collective in and out — mostly out.
We are learning to breathe again.

Soon you will hear the song. Listen.
The whippoorwill is about to sing.