ah, love. singing.

weaving through peace lilies

a single swan's head

craning, not yet in bloom

I'm pruning and

you

roll your hands over

keys

soft and sad

the TV mummers

low, dancing along with

laughs emanating from

soft cotton yarn, balled

up and around our raven fawn

warm slats of sun

wander in from the window

and the music

and the shears

and the mummers

and giggling peels

create the song

love intends to hear.