Birdsong

byAngeline©

It was a black and white day,
no impressionist strokes
swept sky and hour.
The day was condensed
on screens, alpha-numeric
fine print ticked
insectile moments.

Town was gray,
rain falling steady
but listless, not
enough gumption
to pelt or stream,

then Milton, Miller,
Dickens and Joyce
bubbled up. The construct
of language laughed at itself.

Jazz played. 1930s Chicago
paraded past the kitchen.
You gestured, scratched
your knee, spun stories.

Poems fall from far away
into our eyes. You say
it's the music. And yes.
Art weaves through notes
into the heart of the house
like the cliffhanger spider
makes her home
on the ceiling here.

Here.

Birdsong and minor keys
and words in spaces
between the sounds.

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byAngeline© 12 comments/ 3135 views/ 0 favorites

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