I’ll know it’s perfect when the sounds
go bounding down like boulders, round
and booming down the canyon – ground
reverberating. Thrumming of concatenating gong
a rising ring of echoes through the bowl:
uncompromising summons to the soul.
I’ll know it’s perfect when the sense
stands clear, invokes no arguments
but ripples – sends concentric rings against
the harps of hearts, and makes them sing, intense
essential lines on which they’ve ever grown
remembering the truth they’ve always known.
©Wendy Mulhern
April 22, 2011