Monday, June 3, 2024

Poetry:

words. Words. Words
but not too many: just
enough and more
than we understand
at first or ever. Infinite

song. Song surrounds
us: mocks us: alarms
us: soothes us: takes
us under its wing and crashes
over us over and over
an incessant hum:
a cicada nagging for
a mate in pre-summer

heat. Beauty. Landscape. Lines.
Black blobs dotting white
sand beaches of patience
awaiting the wave
that pulls them slowly
back into the sea
one note at a time.
We all return: endless

reprises if not this day then
the next. Loss:
a temporary position:
a pose that strikes
us: our minds a match
head: involuntary child: arms
stretched out before
us: faces to the ground:
a prayer.

Life:

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love notes
a ritual to start the week