When you have a good view with deep loving sounds of piano notes
trodding across the air in a modest spring kind of way,
though January is winter, it feels like fall.
Sadness acts like a collection bowl, and we steep, stew, bob,
a pool dense enough to lay on without sinking,
the horn on top, like jazz, a full, robust flavor.
The room is tinted in a clear, blue light, a reflection of seven o’clock,
and one of the quietest mornings in a long time.
I imagine time is suspended, it is slow.
Thinking to understand is a business of grief, struggle, solidarity.
Inherent, contemplative moments collide when meaning the most,
like the friction between death and life, as to unlearn and learn,
shedding what is known to embrace more, or less.
The great duality in our reasoning is in our resistance.
The larger view of ourselves and others passes as easily
as light and sound, both telling more than words,
we see and hear, but rarely ever dwell in the occasion.