Let the beauty we love be what we do. ~ Rumi
so my daughter Kira drew this beautiful artwork for me.
A quivering in the dead brush, ghosting of a velvet flute
holds me close
scales up and down flickering wings through vanishing time.
Upstairs, a rock-a-bye atmosphere tinged with birdsong
my father in his soft shirt smelling of leaves and smoke
his song of wilderness flowing unfinished.
Mother is downstairs near a ruffling of curtains
rounding her shoulders at the sink, reddening knuckles
in her perishable world.
She worries as she hums, vigilant
over quotidian life and lump-free gravy
as my memory blurs into abstractions, a cigarette's final spark.
Here I lay
doubled up in the pitched tent of now, memories unfurling
captive to a glassy panache of my own Carmina Buranic notes
smashed flutes surrounding dammed up 'O Fortunas'
everything to experience in this precious life
driven into words of carnality
notes of love singing with such intensity
that there's no stopping the glass shattering.