April 15, 2021 [One of the lost poems]
The day before me.
I sit.
Xenia naps.
I browse too much
No need to drowse.
Moving is monumental
I feel ornamental.
Noise known as music jars me.
Needing music that is real
That speaks not screams.
Still voices, but voices.
With melody, with soul, with heart.
Enough said.
I look for something to sooth my ears, wanting to yell at the house,
Or whisper to Alexa when nobody hears me “shut thyself up”.
Then it happens without my saying a word.
And I breathe in relief.
And I make the Cello sing.
Deborah D Fleet
Beyond Immovable 