Poetry for The Gentle Doctor

The Calling

By Neal Bowers

Up at midnight, shoe in hand,

a boy is stalking a cricket

in a corner of his bedroom

dappled by the street light.

Impossible to sleep

with such incessant chirring,

a noise like something rusty

turning in the wind.

Poised over silence, waiting

for another sound, he hears

his own breath rustling,

feels the shared air rushing in.

Such a stunning communion!

Spiders breathing, a moth

on the dark lamp shade,

even horseflies on the window screen,

everything needing the air

each life unrepeatable,

unique as any star

and brilliant,

the night itself shimmering,

bright with uncounted lives,

one cricket singing in the room,

one heart and whole fields answering!