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It’s too cold for April. The honey, seeking its warmer origins,
is crystallizing, reforming structured memories of honeycombs.
I, too, immobilize and turn inward, towards eternal Summer.
When the jar begins to buzz, I know it will soon be full of flowers.

Today's Poem

I could write a poem today,
assuming it included
computers, routers, printers,
and credit card terminals.
Or perhaps what I mean is
that the inanities of
technology would have made
more sense today had they been
in verse. Though perhaps that is
not saying much, as very
often they make as much sense
in Swahili.

                     Yet, somehow,
everything works again, and,
somehow, a poem of sorts is
written.

              Though I’m not sure which
part I managed to write down.

Then the music catches its breath

from a flow of flying grace notes,
eighth notes sparking grace into a
split second alive with stillness,
illuminating a space where
the keenness of hearing becomes,
for an instant, sight, and we see
ourselves, our fiddles, rosin dust
frozen midair as if in time,
clear but transparent over the
years since we last let the music
carry us together, the years
before, when we had lived for it,
and all the music that led up
to this tiniest moment of
no music, unexpected yet
inevitable, called into
being not because of us but
so specifically through us,
that we hear unison now in
each other, in the flow of sound
skirling, twirling around again,
and drawing us rushing onward