Equivalent II

A blank page –
it’s a silent score by John Cage,
Andre’s bricks in The Tate Modern
and all we leave unsaid –
all that really matters.
I turn it to an origami bird,
cup it in my hands and blow it like a kiss,
the only sound – paper wings that crackle,
drift the world on thermals –
a thought in every tongue.

That should be a poem –
the unnameable at its christening,
silent chords of being
in the rhythm of our breathing –
the fabric of our lives
in sudden thrill of highlight,
which strikes a recognition,
steals us for a moment
to strain into the stillness
our own interpretation.

© Caroline Fox Betts 2010

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