The tap of isolated rain drops writes
on paper leaves. Mosquitos, second instar,
try my ankles. The sun is stirring clouds
and branches, welcome as crow call, wake song
of the cardinal. Insist, sparrow, on your space.
I took a seat in this arena, listening
to the practice noise, the warm up
of the parts that challenge them. The city
treads mechanically. One church bell, two.
A train clears its throat, again, again.
The sky is white. The canopy shakes
off shadows, the wind turns my page.
An artist let each seedling try for light.
No mown lawns this side of town, west
of wealth, south of the river, wild.
The shouts of workers taking cigarettes
to lean against the walls that once enclosed
a yard, but now, a parking lot, empty their anxiety
of coming in the dark, before the morning
had a chance to rise up from their dreams.
I hear the kettle, know there will be coffee.
I want infusion of tea leaves, picked
by tan hands, sheltered heads trained by straw hats
to see the hems of wealth below them, select
notes for morning of the day in bloom.