Vines of music crawl over the
listening parts of me. The aroma of it
lifts from lines like everyday wash hung
from my soul; dripping the old part onto
the soil of my comfort, drying me into
a creation I thirst for.
The smoke of my thoughts curled tight,
feeding on the moisture of my
garden and appetite within. The sound of jazz
opened suitcases of me, tossing the neatness
as if confetti; its landing lay jagged and random.
A river I feel; strong currents hold rights over me.
The songs break like waves. I sing the opening of
day. Night songs wash me anew.
Roger Singer 