I write near the open window and feel Early autumn's cool crisp gently passing over my neck and shoulders. The neighbourhood saxophonist leans into "Starry, Starry Night", caressing the darkness and my ears with silky melancholic sweetness. "If music be the food of love--Play on "
It is everywhere this season, Mother looks like father looks like daughter looks like son. As they gather around the holiday tree Like escapees from corporate Whoville, They sing songs to a baby Who couldn't care less about Target.
I don't think as well when the noise goes around my cranium, Through my ears and into my skull where my brain resides, So when the sounds begin a journey that subsides, All of the thoughts come to light, Less frightened of silence.