The Glorious Day Gives by Lenard D. Moore

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.