The wind makes the leaves
sound like sheaves of paper rustling
as the pages of a book are flipped, then
like the ocean, waves lapping
to the shore of my regret.
The book cannot be studied,
for its pages are uncut—temperance
for the blind. I cannot find you,
though I see your face on the Internet.
You are lost to me, and in an attempt
to avoid sounding like a stereotype, I place
mother-of-pearl, heart-shaped, inside the shell
of our memory, coat its sheen with saliva
until the article which forms
is too big for my mouth. I spit it out,
create another, end up with a whole plateful
of sad, silver, heart-shaped pearls
which no one wants. I glue them
to the cover of the book, cut the pages
and turn them, in hopes of a good story.
The pages are empty. The pearls
are unwanted. The sound of the ocean
is just a slight breeze—there is no water
to be found, no glimpse of blue
anywhere. The only thing the wind brings me
is sound, and I have been deaf for years.
The echo of your love still rings in my ears
Julie Mahfood
From: Literary Review of Canada, Volume 16: 9
"Time has been transformed, and we have changed; it has advanced and set us in motion; it has unveiled its face, inspiring us with bewilderment and exhilaration."
~Kahlil Gibran
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Word Scramble Fun: Unscramble the following word. The first letter is given as a hint. The answer will be revealed tomorrow.
N C E F I N B T I E
B _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Yesterday's word was: PERSEVERANCE
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