Waiting for Whispers

I drift through December air. Writing down the things I hear. On an airplane

made of memories, there are many voices near. Some are unhappy. Some are troubled.

Some just say to relax. There's a wolf behind my shoulder running circles 'round

my traps. In the phantom silence, I feel a cry so deep

it shakes the floor. Every word another visit like a knock

at some old door. There's a list of names and faces

that the shadows try to show. I just sit here waiting for whispers.

Writing down what I don't know. Underneath it all, I hear them say.