Pull from favorite music

blossoming in earbuds—

that stairway into other worlds.

Cease the chatter of powered creatures

and they will let you deserved leave

to hear a drip from the faucet

which properly perceived

is a forest facing the open window

and its family of hewn sounds

that tell us the time

and set a mood

for muses might

just share the night

with seeking strangers

if they bring delight

in the highest forms of ancient rhymes,

weapons whittled on fire-lit evenings

away from a company of commotions

who give us something to do

On Wednesday but won’t lead us

to and from our seasons that

emerge within us slower than The Fall.

which see that the Summer

of infancy is longer than the first fall breeze

or the last leaf still on the clock

whose chime echoes as distant

as your first Spring, known now through

Olfactory ah-hahs

melancholic meditations visible

as a departed ship

on star rejoicing night

they creep by as suddenly

and saving as a Saturday.