Somehow A Song Poem by Michael William

When you open doors
on winter mornings, with the strange
new pain on your skin; when the air
swells like a bruise and sits like a king
on the throne of your ear,

Remember the way the ice cracks.
Subtle at first, then loud. Somehow purer
than snow: the whitest of sound.


We each learn that sound in a different
way. It tumbles into our ears
like a boulder. Lands soft on the drum
like a feather.

Hardly a sound but
somehow a song.