My head is a glass jar

full to brimming with voices

and expectations,

fighting each other

for their survival.


I sling my pack over my shoulder

and cinch it tight

around my belly

to hold in my anger,

to hold in my rest.


I ascend and the voices grow louder-

I do not resist.

I allow them to flow

over my ears

and trickle through my mind

and rush through my heart.


They move and journey

and I begin to hear.




I hear the ram

scrambling over the rock.

He glances back at me

and climbs higher.




The brook is breaking through

its icy barriers –

sometimes so quietly,

I must hold my breath and

try to stop my heart

so I don’t drown out its voice.




I stop and the wind rushes and speaks and asks,

and my heart answers,





A miniscule woodpecker

has picked an

Empire State tree

and knocks


for nourishment,

determined and unconcerned.


I drink deeply

from the water in my pack

and it shocks my throat

and washes away the questions

choking me.


I do not meet a single soul

except my own.

She asks how I have been.

I answer: the voices. the jar.

She shakes her head and asks:

How have you been?


I must tell her I am at a nexus

and a crossroads of joy and pain.

She says this is good.

This is how you reach into the jar

and sift around

feeling each one until

the voice you hold in your hand

is your own.




The sound of quiet

is deafening.

The sound of blood rushing

in my ears,

harmonizes with the birdsong.


I hear sublime.

I am sublime.