Words like these have rhythm

They find internal rhyme over time

Observable moments, folding in

Noticed before, but slant

for #sol22

Spindly sticks gathered off my elderly neighbor’s lawn, remains of a storm come, and gone, as she pops her head out and asks, curious, What’s going on?

I’m wandering around, my arms full of broken fallen wood, telling her with a smile about bonfire we’ll make, when the weather gets good

for #sol22

What can you expect, with kids, on a morning like this, hoping for the best on a day of difficult tests?

Even the best of them lose focus, hoping for a little hocus pocus, and find the silly:

like the friends across the room playing a furtive game of rock paper scissors under tables

or the one in the corner pretending to paint flowers and feathers in air, with imaginary ink and care

or the finger drummer making silent beats from his seat on the table top drum top won’t stop

and, you know, maybe, I’m the noisiest one of us in the room, shushing them from nine ‘til noon

for #sol22

Each year’s Slice on the blog on this twenty-eighth day lands in a very predictable way:

It’s my middle son’s birthday – as before and as yet to come –
I write of it, just a bit, here, today

for #sol22

A soft guitar plays As their wedding vows are made; Wonder at the day

#sol22 for Andrew and Jessica

The stage seems crowded - the saxophonist elbow to elbow with the flutist, standing right above the strings – a cello and two violins – as the drummer smiles and shines, keeping time with the bass, and the guitarist/conductor criss-crossing the air with hands commanding the band, listening for the vocalist, in a red dress mirroring the energy of audience, to sing us all into New York City: an ‘Upper West Side Love Story’ told of the street to the beat of jazz

(Watching Freddy Bryant in concert at the Bombyx Center)

for #sol22

Another night of brackets, broken; no one else hears these curses, spoken

for #sol22

March morning, soaked in rain; reminders, again, of Winter's descent and Spring's steady gain; the wet sloshes emerging buds of flowers finding root, in soil: a change, ordained

for #sol22

Another broken string, singing the guitar in pain, and here I am, fretting the sound on knotted neck, playing the role of Luthier, once again

for #sol22

On the way up to take in the sky, my eyes notice the Great Blue Heron, a floating apparition shadowed by cloud on its way towards water

for #sol22 and Open Write