white noise

white noise is snow to my ears listening.

I go and make angels in the sound.

trudge around in the hillside forest 

of acoustics.

and linger on the memories of the hum.

at some point, 

quiet becomes a different season of the year.

a breeze through the trees 

is organized symphony.

listening to a world without language,

sweeps me off my feet 

into mind-dance leaps,

as a thought-form choreography, 

without shoes of logic,

the dress-up of conversation,

or the mind-medium mix 

of muted cynicism. 

with sound-bites only inwardly spoken,

pleasant is the upturn of murmurs 

into croon,

sound presence into purrs

and whispers into smoldering silence. 

all of this, 

in the open fire 

of the audio-appreciable melody

of white noise as reverential 

on the soothe . . .