Thank you
for the songs
you sing me
early in the morning.
For the images
you impart
through sonic means.
Sounds of nails creak
sliding into the flesh
of wood.
Birds outside
the global warming
of my air conditioned
photographic lair.
My God!
There are even beautifully photographed
birds on the calendar,
across from the desk lamp,
on the wall.
Who should ever worry
over the poetry of spring?
Only salesmen worry.
Whether real or imagined.
Spring? NEVER!
Birds? NEVER!
Music? NEVER!
For these,
it's just enough
to be.
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