Spin

I meant to tell you about the silence

of birch trees, white against green,

not waiting for anything.

Instead we spoke about music,

the colour of it, and the unwritten

time between

where a hummingbird makes the world

stand still, and dancers spin

like mathematicians in love.

My steps are echoing through

empty rooms. This is not true.

The rooms are not empty

if I am walking through

them in search of you. The cycle begins

with one and ends with one,

dha dhin dhin dha, dha dhin dhin dha,

but the space between the beats is clean

and does not expect to be filled in.