Winter Concert Poem by Joe Bisicchia

She speaks as if from heaven, for that she is. I love you, her mother, and she speaks as if this she knows. She speaks as Sade would sing, her voice resonating through all of me. I am more than veneer, and this she knows. I am more than hollow, and this she knows. I am just her earthen father, so far below heaven, and she sings as if this she welcomes, and this she knows, as much as such a small life instinctively may ever know.

Perhaps her wisdom is warmth beyond the hearth. Perhaps she knows of the sun, and its pull of earth. Perhaps she knows of everyone. Each of us, far more than a chord box. More than mind, or body, or more than any passing of time.

Sun is falling. And darkness comes with all its might. Soon, over the once white horizon,
in this bone chilling cold, as we see crimson before night there is the fading flame before us. Listen as we each play our innate violin, our voices, each God given.

And she is love at our core, this daughter of ours, this child you bore.

Inside, we shall pull down the sun. Shall listen to the friction of all we are within. And this infant sings of all that is life.

Music. She is. God-given.




Published in Fourth & Sycamore,2017