Celestial tones

a media poem

Adrift at sea —
     waves lick the hull 
     preparing to feast.

The wind rests
     to hear the symphony of the stars.
The bright ones shine like trumpets,
     some flutter like a flute
     most harmonize,
     unnoticed but essential.

I raise my sextant, 
     my only working instrument
     to call to these players,
but I can no longer summon 
     celestial tones —
an ancient language once innate, 
     now foreign.

I try and try 
     to produce a joyful noise.
A tearful plea, 
     in desperation,
to recall this ancestral knowledge,
but it has fled from me 
     as I have fled from them.

The orchestra rises to take a bow as
     the curtain closes —
     clouds roll in.
I can only stand and weep —
     a dreadful ovation.
My tears add just enough salt
     to the ocean —
now perfectly seasoned.

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