Lake light comforts woodwind mesh across the white keys
tossed with wrinkled glaze and flecks that meet the reed stretch
of intention. Prayer is that wan fraction putty in the hand
made bold as an elbow in the ribs meant to nudge forth
a magnetic kind of melody within percussion always understated
as mild as summer in an intuitive clime and held constant
as a river lined with alert new flow. Are there still host flowers
left to sweeten the stern rhyme scheme and varied for a little fun,
a treasure treasured reverently with deceptive ease (why not)
made into something else, a southerly ring tone let loose to empty
winter bones along the surface mood of a restrained Coltrane
woven past the lasting lathe of making sandwiched between scope
and phases of a finish line. Improvisation curls around straight
lines called norms until the wheel of left-hand turns leading
perhaps to memory complete unto itself in versions averse
to bedding down with tangents rice-tossed like celebration
strayed from progression to grownup nuptials and silhouettes
left in the margins of what lives on in polite society
craning favorite neck status to reach a vortex once considered
daybed frost of velveteen surrender brought to bear on forecast
broth one honey bear away from embouchure once cold.
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Sheila E Murphy
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