The footsteps of home,
they slip across a shiny surface
reflecting back imperfect reality,
and in shadow,
wisdom is discernible.
Blobs of gray
float like Plato’s shadows,
never revealing our destinies.
Our words create a chorus
of mild melodies,
automatic in discordance,
charged in harmony;
sounds knit together
as comforting as a thick afghan
passed down through a million hands
from great, great gran.
Wrap yourself in the sounds of tradition.
When a solo comes,
be sure to listen for:
the weavers inflection,
the sway of the lines,
the tone of each texture,
the fictional falsetto,
the vulnerable vibrato,
but most importantly, the silences.
There are the moments of absolute truth.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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