Birdsong, wind chimes, wheezed breathing of constant
traffic along North Lookout, blending with
gradual creaks of bedroom walls, distant
chorus of children’s calls forming a wreath
joyous on church playground across the street,
and from parking lot below, neighbors’ cars
in their ritornello as they repeat
tires’ slow crunch of scattered pebbles. We are
captive to this morning harmony, love,
holding each other, sculpture of senses
beneath these old sheets, this bed sacred glove
of our being. Through our long silences
we praise this sonata, its entrancing
our existence, our glowing eyes dancing.
Roger Armbrust
April 9, 2009
