Nevada City Nest

I had to stop wanting.
Wanting clothes
what belonging would undress.

Friday felt like a dream.
And by Saturday,
I knew it was.

New faces,
old friends.
Some recognized me,
others
not yet.

A room surrounded by my image
playing in reverse.
Fragments of voice,
of service,
of song.

Made in the moment,
and still,
I knew the rhythm.

What is your offering?
one asks.

I’m exiled from voice
now that I know
there is nothing more to be said.

I am foreign to the land of healing
now that I know
nothing broke.

But music…
where does it come from?

It is not me laying tracks.
Still the bass climbs
the root of my seat.

Signal watching rhythm.
Eternal eyes
and hearts beyond battle.
Hands in hands
as if always that way.

I watched purity drip
like mother’s milk,
then change lanes
in the traffic of tired veins,
still flooded
with thoughts of last night.

The room was steady.
So the voice returned.

Where are you off to now?
Is this what home feels like?

It saddened me
that it is not.

I know the place,
the one I no longer avoid.

Home
has no sound,
no color,
no heartbeat.
Not where music listens.

But to be born of that silence
in a room of light,
solace and sunshine,
home became
everywhere.

So what do I offer?
Structure?
Space?

My acoustics rise,
so an answer reverberates.

Belonging is the one altar
that asks for no offering.
Being
needs no permission.

Here, I lay rest
to the ceaseless voice
and speak
on behalf of the nest.

When you speak to my walls,
I will echo your words.
When you tend to my yard,
I will bear fruit.
When you fill me,
I will hold you close.

And when you leave,
you will always have
somewhere
to return.

Love me not
for who I am,
but for my ability
to hold
beauty
inside.