The bougainvillea in the wind is orchestrated by the piano music I hear at my cafe table. At the table beside me a young woman sits writing in tiny script. We are both using green pens. In a room with green chairs, a green floor…

On the lamp shade at my table a winter scene, a Northeastern barn yard, I imagine. Horse-drawn wagons, men in red shirts. Pine trees, brick chimneys, hands extended in a wave. It is the music which brings the scene to life. It is, as always, the music which makes it church. 94poems/do

There is something I
must do, there is
something I must do.
There is something I must
it feels outside,
it feels round.