it was the sounds. sounds before the words.
it was her voice in the hollows inside the wood.
then it was a tree. she grew. grew into me.
she rested a hand on my shoulder. like Sun does.
radiant gravity, it moved through limbs,
came to rest in my hands.
then this, my remembering. the tall steps
standing watch in front of an unlocked door.
that door where I sat and cried. sad word here.
that was the where I learned about mass
like the tug of earth, or my own weight
onto the now broken new model balsa
wood plane. and I cried.
like when I learned standing atop a tricycle
to climb a tree, lets you meet gravity more
personally. wheels do what wheels do.
she held me inside a gentle bowl, whispering.
her name was Francis.
but that was another day, another knee.
besides, we were talking about violins.