still music grows as a lengthened silence unbroken

in this dim room held still
by the wide window and evening music
surrounding our high house, broken
briefly by a distant shouting, then silence
soon filled again by insects that grow
numerous as days lengthen

fed by rain and melt the lawn lengthens
cut down by the labor of the day but still
this evening we witness it grow,
stretching in green fits to its own music
which is to us remarkably like a silence
played on for centuries un-broken

counterpoint and out of time the broken
bass of machinery mumbles down ditches that lengthen
by pistons preserving and saturating the silence
that ties us, briefly, to the nightsong and is still
itself a song, a separate kind of music
the song of killing to make things grow

which is always the way of things that grow
and will in turn one day become broken
one day: this waltz, this music,
the cacophony by which our lives lengthen
will rest on a single note, our sounding boards still,
adding one part to the endless silence

that long waiting, the endless silence
when we no longer grow
sweaty while our rhythms become still
and our plans bear no fruit, broken
as the centuries yawn and lengthen
until the tonic note drops at the end of all music

but tonight with the ordinary music
of folk we fill staves between us and that silence
and let that brief dream of order lengthen
there is time yet for some plans to grow
before everything is broken
before everyone becomes still

long and late we listen to music loud but strangely still,
until the window closes to silence again the sound of sleep un-broken
yet while another night lengthens behind another morning to grow

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