Rhythm.

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

precariously
in the blowing wind.

I have been sitting here for years,

leafing through a magazine,

while the night refuses to sing.