The music released with a slow gravity
against the weight of a dusky room.
The record player, a wooden box with
antique charm, scratched out a song
of weeping blues as the needle traveled
the grooves, circling, advancing, calling
for hands to clap and feet to walk lightly.
The music penetrated the gray of
morning shadows, working the air, pushing
aside false claims, opening a fresh
start, releasing a new day.
Roger Singer 