This morning a song is happening. . . .
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. . . .
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.