the yellow sun
in syncopation with the shadows
keeping time as if it too
hears the satellite jazz
as I always do, intent
to capture the rhythm in my head,
my hands steering the wheel
the way Spanish moss dangles
from the hard diameter of a limb.
How often I want to whisper
the melody, bend with riffs
and dance the way an elm might
in the warm breath of wind,
just flutter like a leaf
suspended in a vertical line of light,
a morning that gives myself
to the humming silence of the universe
then back to me, back to me.
