The sun sings Spring’s music,
with floral notes in the breeze,
and rainwater on ruby rosebushes.
In continual consonance.
I have an ear
for human harmony and the cadence
of the creek’s cicadas at twilight,
and the clickety-clack of the train’s timbre,
that tenuous toe-tap,
that makes my childlike heart hum.
“Word-warriors sing with me,
in a new love-language.”
One, two, three.
“Only love is the steady beat,
everything else is disharmony.”
I write Spring’s words in the half-light.
“Only love both listens and sings.”
The background humdrum of yellow bees
greet me when I wake under a ceiling of trees.
In delicious dissonance.
I have a vivacious voice
but I go to the tree-trail
just to listen
to the yellow-bellied songbird sing.