The rhythm fades in and out to the beating of your heart.
The mustard is left on the windowsill; a robin chirps to me
as I pull in the driveway after a day of work. Nature is
constantly in a spiral. It moves in rhythm to the beating
of my heart, and the
doorway opens to let in the sun.
The sun shines like a round face.
The trees droop
in the blowing wind.
I have been sitting here for years,
leafing through a magazine,
while the night refuses to sing.