Guzlowski-Stepek: The Never-ending Poem

  The only song I never sung was "Bluebells in the Winter". I heard it as a dirge from my neighbour  who spoke no trace of love or kindness. He sang it when he was cooking cats  or dragging a carcass  along the bloodstained kitchen floor. I’m not sure that was the title,  but I’m sure of what it sounded like.   A celebration of death, a hatred of beauty.   The mournful cry of birds with wings pulled off, winds blackened with ash, his world a flightless crash. I will never sing such a song though it haunts my very bones.

The only song I know is  butterflies in the morning.    I learned it as a kid from my mom  who spoke no language I knew.  She sang it when she was cooking  and dragging a shopping cart  and vacuuming the floor.  I’m not sure that that was the title,  but I’m sure of what it sounded like.   Butterflies in the morning.   The sound of wings with no wings,  winds with no winds, flight with no flight.