The pure vowels of music
step up the scale with
a blood chilling thrill

to find a path in the realm of consciousness
in the days of less light
and chilled extremities
a yellow softening to the sharp leafed oaks
persistent in their darker shades
each step violates the law of gravity
my own weight and that which I
carry body and soul strains at
my arms stoops my shoulders

so that the day should begin slowly
the ritual of cup and window
the ritual of blank page blank mind
the ritual of less said the better email
the ritual of avoiding of what needs be done
                                  
into the serious years
when nothing is of little consequence
the cold shoulders of the past
shiver on the silver-lined horizon
a world shrugged off at the edge
of twilight and the warm glow of lamps
a return to innocence a bit threadbare
and fringed with wear                                                  
the rain a vertical texture
against the smoke gray encroaching mist
birds in their element
rejoice in hop peck skip dance