A music spells within me,
And the world is calm.
And I love that the world doesn’t hear. Even I cannot hum the
Harmonies, I only hold part. And I let it boil and cling to the heavy stillness I’ve created.

From my fingers, the tender, wild milkweed expends its breaths.
And it breathes its own melody, that thunders quietly, lost in the pitied exhales of day. 
And maybe it is too.
But it spreads its wings in trust, letting each silken feather give way to a greater lung.
From my fingers, it calls to a shadowed hill far away,

Stirring chords of distance and sod until I cannot hold it.
And I will not hold it.
It's what milkweed is supposed to do, in the great stretch of calm.
To pull from the earth, flesh and glass jars,
To cry the great symphony of calloused movement I cannot hear. And in its hazened cloud,

To draw to something I cannot find.
And isn't that the beauty of Promise. It passes and eases over shadowed hills, but its silent notes ring forever.