An overture‚ an aroma‚
The young olive tree
Under which we spend
Our hours. No time
For next week‚ no standing
In the what-nots
That give it privilege.
Clouds folding over
An inlet‚ the sky is tossed
With smoke.
An empathy of dirt and
What it buries—
Our hours and how we
Spend them.
This is the morning
Of the still and weathered
Stones‚ around which
The bright surge
Of sun disappears and
Disappears.
The sound I will remember
You by is the bright
Birds flitting in and out
Of your eyes.
Thus the world goes on
Reading its Braille‚
And where I touch‚
The mind never does see.
This poem is part of BR’s special package celebrating National Poetry Month.