I was a guest in the province
of notes. Carrying my fiddle and bow
I walked down the avenue of heavy oaks.
It was the morning the children left home
for good. I passed soldiers and hostages,
and came to a broad, whitewashed building
set on a gracious southern lawn.
An obsolete palace, home for lepers.
I listened to the nothing I’d been
and the nothing I’d done.
I heard the scratching of leaves and birds,
small sisterly voices moved by wind.
My unconscious life was floating back to me,
I was made to understand: it was god with a large G.
All I had to do was be still.
Judith Skillman’s new book is “Kafka’s Shadow,” Deerbrook Editions (2107).
Visit www.judithskillman.com.
