Not Hearing

by Laura Foley

A dog shifts soundlessly
at my feet, beneath the table
where I sit, un-writing.
Rain drops fall slow-motion
on neon grass,
on the hill of snow receding—
the longest, slowest winter,
dissolving into memory
like an uneasy dream
on waking—as peonies
thrusting through soil
with their sword-like heads.
Though my pen moves,
I am not writing,
not believing,
not hearing the symphony
of spring’s instruments,
not hearing my breath
for the flood of unwriteable words,
as the second dog
shifts her weight,
quickening sound
of legs in motion,
running in place.

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