I pluck a string. Low E.
Baby girl on floor goes still.
Rosebud lips round to a silent O.
ripples up and down my spine
in male baritones.
Soft block slips from chubby hands.
The room fills with fireflies.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
A high trill, like crystal notes
from a water-glass xylophone,
signals her joy.
Fireflies shift into
a rainbow of electric butterflies.
Baby trills a chord: eeee aaa ddd.
We drink in harmony,
effervescent fizzies tickling tummies.
She makes the sign for more.
My fingers dance over strings.
Colors pop like fireworks and I laugh for her.
image credit: blurred christmas lights by Dominick on Flickr
It’s possible not everyone sees the color of sound, or feels the notes walking through their body. I think poets do. For some of us it is in our DNA, part of a rich neurodiversity that fuels our creativity. For others they see and feel in the mind’s eye. However it happens for you, it is part of the harvest from which we all feed our poetry. The theme, should you choose to use it, for OLN on dVersepots.com is Harvest. Stop by dversepoets.com to see what others wrote or to join the fun yourself.