This morning a song is happening. . . .
ridiculous: the difference
from aquatic birth to
solid earth, so far north
to deepest south
espresso sings: hand to mouth
Floating in my cup of tea:
the bric-a-brac chunk leftovers
from the small scoop of flavorful dust
I stirred in, along with honey. . . .
Pristine Sistine: at the Vatican I walked and walked through halls of wondertil at last I reached the endwhere God’s own voice resounds like thunderfrom images well known as friends In awe beneath that gorgeous ceilingsequestered as a holy choiceoverwhelmed with thoughts and feelingsbrought back to earth by recorded noise Quiet! and No pictures, please!LoudlyContinue reading “A Pair of Italian Sonnets”
Baudelaire said to be drunk, always, so this morning I am choosing tea and sunshine. . . .
n this fading comes regeneration
(even the most robust things must sleep)
so the trees light up with celebration
while within the soil their roots stretch out deep. . . .
like I know my body
like my soul knows that one day
it will answer a magnetic call
of its own
Ferocious as a violin
whose bow knows constant friction
this morning saw the day begin
with nature’s noisy diction
tirring up in all its forms
with which a busy day adorns
the fact and fiction of my heart
can leave me breathless with its scorn
awash in doubt, swiftly forlorn,
tossed in the air and torn apart.
into future years