Sound of light is not feet love earth come rain
or lean into horse, her heft to hold.
It is feather’s dream of wind—
monk’s robe rushing toward still mind.
Sound of mind is not whittling winds
or how horse heaves a burdened plow.
It is earth’s breath beneath unleashed rain—
how feet falter beneath wild of sky.
Sound of sky is not horse’s heft let go
or fields of fire gone cruel.
It is monk’s trace behind candle’s flame—
unleashed rain blessing plow and dirt.
Sound of dirt is not wind’s might
or mind’s burden lain at gate.
It is horse come home to pull love’s plow—
sound of light lifting sky.
There are ashes everywhere.
Driftwood. Grasslands. Bone.
Shadows of moon and metal. Tides.
How questions wobble. Artists flinch.
And walls pardon the noise of breath.
Hurrying. Delicate. How spectacular
blood. Morning. Mouthfuls
of blossom gone. Air hauls
the heavy scent of sorrow. Slouching.
Eye of fire’s a gone tomorrow.
Letters. Envelopes. A clock face. Wicked, ticking
in the corner. A whisper redefining decibel.
A child’s cry through thin walls. A mother’s comfort.
Mumblings. Plans to travel. Wheels. Wheels.
Lindsay Rockwell is poet-in-residence for the Episcopal Church of Connecticut and hosts their Poetry and Social Justice Dialogue series. She’s published, or forthcoming in CALYX, EcoTheo Review, Radar, River Heron Review, among others. Her first collection, GHOST FIRES, was published by Main Street Rag, April 2023. She’s received fellowships from Vermont Studio Center and Edith Wharton/The Mount residency. Lindsay holds a Master of Dance from New York University’s Tisch School of Arts and is an oncologist.