Generations planted this tree and I can forget about it. Absence and patterns sweeten in the cold in resemblance of an old idea, a calligraphic waltz. That garden framed by wood, texture of a voice and a leaf and a piano to study the process of growing a pair of wings under the violent ambiguity of diminishing belief. I am trying not to wait for a type of reversion, to wander between the sounds like a cadence. I am buried in the garden until you speak of me with berries blooming on my breast but the weaving of the violins and the sandy scratch of wax reveal my thoughts as history is undressed. I used to listen to string quartets. Genealogy suggests that there is no such thing as loneliness, but only a kind of forgetting. The spirit has a moment when it asks, “Where am I? Who am I? Is this the beginning or the end?” An animal is in my body, its ear pressed to the ground. My cousin is the winter. I am a child of the sound.