Neptune does not echo

by Regis Boff

We are forever

guessing

if we are a song.

Nothing is soundless.

We suspect but are never sure

that our noises carry.

My whistling

may reach Neptune.

But Neptune, like God,

does not echo.

Birds don’t care so much

for their own songs.

They care about eggs

and nests

and the size of baby new wings.

Cicadas lullaby summer evenings.

But the night doesn’t pick up

their theme

and begin to dance.

Flies whizz

their little ditties

by our ears.

And we brush them away,

like eavesdropped insults.

The flowers

exhale their perfumes

​into the winds

blinding the dazzled slave bees.

Nothing disturbs the evenhanded blizzard

that is being alive or the drama​

of surprising death,

and the odd collisions with love.

She sits among her

snowflake suitors.

All sincere,

Each different,

Each the same

all waiting.

Until she finds

the one

that echoes her song.

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