The branch
grasps an array of green
leafy silks

dangled as if hung
from an exquisite
‘made to order’ laundry line.

Holding steadily
like fingers reaching
for ‘anything’…

they are held as if
in a posture of prayer.

Out of nowhere,
an invisible source
permeates what
has appeared undisturbed.

The wind
pushes the veins
held in the ‘gloved’ body.

They begin to ‘touch’
one another—

a sound echoes in
what was
hushed ‘nothing-ness.’

Prayer has unleashed
speaking in a voice
made audible
by the harmonic perpetrator
who entered this

For a long while
the chorus ‘plays.’

It never will
re-play the same

The song lives on.

Each leaf a note
that eventually will FALL

creating ‘space’
for a melody—

From a source
some might call God
or a conceived place
of Nothing-ness.

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