Neptune, like God, does not echo

by Regis Boff

Eternity is a grooved spinning record,
and we go round and round,
forever guessing if we are a song
Or the melody.

Life finds it’s tune.
Nothing is quiet.
Our sounds, we suspect, carry.
To where we can only guess,
My whistling
may reach Neptune.
But I am not certain of this.
Neptune, like God, does not echo.

Birds don’t care
for their songs.
They care about eggs and nests
and the size of baby wings.
Cicadas lullaby summer evenings.
But the night doesn’t pick up
the theme
and begin to dance.

Flies whizz their little ditties
by our ears.
And we brush them away,
eavesdropped insults.

The flowers
exhale their perfumes​
into the winds to
blind the dazzled slave bees.

Nothing disturbs the evenhanded blizzard
that is being alive.
Or the drama​ of surprising death,
Only a collision with love
reveals the sun.

She sits among her snowflake suitors.
All sincere,
Each different,
Each the same
all waiting.
Until she finds
the one that does not melt
away.