An angel in heaven
Sits high above
Longingly wanting
This life she was robbed

An angel in heaven
Sighs at her loss
As she silently watches
The ones that she lost

An angel in heaven
felt unimaginable pain
Forced by a monster
Treating her life with disdain

An angel in heaven
Turns and flutters her wings
Forsaking that life
Now her new journey begins.

An angel in heaven
Now filled with smiles and much love.
For those who shall miss her
She returns as a dove.

Sunlight caught the iridescent sheen
on its nascent feathers,
minuscule claws gripped my skin.

The vulnerability I shield
was mirrored in its fragile form.

A feather, dislodged
by a tremor I might’ve caused,
spiraled down
escaping a clenched fist,
barbs catching light
like captured starlight.

Adrift on the same currents
that carry me through lives,
a solitary traveler
bearing silent testament
of a brief encounter.

It danced on the wind,
mirroring my unpredictable trajectory
Lodged in a spider's web,
freed by a sudden shower.

I became a landscape
in its miniature world.

I am this feather,
caught in the updraft
of their moments,
beautiful in passing,
destined to fall
where I’m least expected.

The voice, the bell-yellow
voice of the sax plays on.
Under the mind like a layer
of canvas lie the brushes
and strokes, the arms and legs
of memory.  The arrival on the
skin of sound is the moment
of love.  The unfurling of
the pallette.

You say, listen, the wail of
breath on brass is mine.  No,
it is yours.  The voice, no
longer alone, even when
unaccompanied, falls from
the blues of evenings or the
reds of afternoons, approaches
with footprints in sand.  We
are castled in music, our
colors unfurled.

Our fingers on the keys.  We
see the archetype of design in
the sound of the sax, the
movement in the fabric of
stripes.  The sound’s colors
draw us to each other.
Listen.  The wail of breath
on brass is everywhere.
Listen.


101793

A good sleep
is a prayer
answered

Those
Who have
the most to say

Usually
say the least