The clear piping of a robin rang above the quiet of the sleepy morning street
A distant conversation of neighbors drifted through the open door;
Faint voices, murmurs, tones, fell into repose.
Silence threw her cloak of repose through the trees and shrubs.
Small breezes whirled, the rushing air stirred up the silvery backs of maple leaves
Silence returned all to stillness.
Then again the robbing piped
As it had piped before
Long ago, when
In my bed as a youngster, the sweet smell of early morning hay
Drifting across the fields, freshly cut alfalfa melded into the dew.
The timeless songster sings yet to guide me to eternity.

The summer morning was broken by your song.
You called down the rain

Hanging from my fingertips thousands of feet up I feel my arms growing weak. With the ground of air under my feet and the slippery rock sliding under my fingertips I cry out for help. One last begging plead for rescue. You see me there but don't hear me. You laugh thinking it's another game and that I will recover as I have done countless times before. But this time I'm not playing a game. I need you to reach out and grab me, pull me to safety, But you just turn and walk away. I scream your name hoping to see you run back to save your damsel in distress. You do nothing of the nature except keep walking the opposite direction of where I fall. I tumble down faster than light, feeling my body hit every rock, every splinter of hope shooting through my heart. The last thing I hear before my vision fails me and my mind goes blank is words spoken in your voice. Such a waste.

I like to sit outside and
think of you

the grass is fragrant
Which reminds me
of your constant overuse
of cologne to cover the
scent of the cigarettes
You smoke
and the wind
whether it knows or not
whispers your name
and reminds me that you
are a bad idea
that loving you
is dangerous
So I don't listen to the wind
because the wind
has never loved you
and the wind
has never had the satisfaction
of your voice and your smile
And your touch

Golden bronze rays
shower light and
ooze heat in the
noontime hour of
the unforgiving days
of wet June warmth.

Sticky, moist, slick
skin falters under
pressure impregnated
with exhaustion and
unquenchable thirst.

Steam rises from
now viscous tarred
streets after rain
falls with no warning.

Waves of lurid heat
evolve from every surface
in sight near and far.

Wet, hot, moist, sticky,
sultry, intense, stifling.

Summer has made it’s entrance.

Sweat sweet with mid-day summer sun.
Skin burns red to blister.
It permits no resistance.
Insistent on shining.
Eyes squint for shadow.
All to rare in this lonely atmosphere.
Rarer breezes blow to tease relief,
But all this provides for view beyond belief.
The city erupts in the Sun's Rays.
Reflecting infinite daily cloud-play off Glassy faced behemoths.
Every ripple sparks diamond waves.
And sometimes
this place doesn't seem so bleak.

There is nothing like a sunny day in the month of June,
to chase away some gloom.

Time drips slowly down kitchen cabinets
Like cello music, sweet and dark,
Spilling over the edges of fingerboards and eyelashes,
Arpeggios of stillness cascading through the
Silence that is really music reigning the gaps between each whisper of breath and tick of the clock and soft drumming of raindrops on the street, an ensemble of intimacy.
I love it here.
I love the way it's vulnerable and honest inside your walls of false, forte confidence;
There are no cliché expressions of love at first sight, just the words of your heart,
Like notes played on an old piano, each separate and round and the tiniest bit halting but beautiful nonetheless.
They are rough truths, a little out of tune and not in quite the right key,
But they are the truth,
And that strikes more chords in my heart than a perfect rendition of well-rehearsed Beethoven harmonies
Fitting too perfectly to my rhythms.
And the cadence of your laugher flutters in my rib cage like
Triple-tongued fanfares,
The brush of your fingertips on mine
Sending vibratos of warmth through my soul,  
Yours eyes, honey brown, speaking as powerfully as a Stradivarius
Without even the smallest pianissimo whisper of voice,
My synapses firing in double-time, heart thumping adagio, allegro, presto,
Neither of us conducting, just riding out the jazz and operas and fiddles and symphonies of our love
I wish for books of blank pages to keep composing the
New melody of our lips, dancing along crescendos of
Instinct and softly thrilling secrets
On the gentle sonata of a rainy day in June.