The tree outside my window flutters green.
She’s pregnant with Bach’s flute sonata soon.
Delighted with her lofty leaf, she leans
as poets, rapt within her branches, croon.
You’ve had the better hour of my bright morn
and still I pause and hear you play your part,
enticing birds; those jazz-men with a horn,
that play for you and bring to you their heart.
Lush tree, framed in my window, I confess
I understand with mystery we’re bound;
art captured by some joy that you profess
in your melodic, beaming, mellow sound.
Oh, solid kin, if God be anywhere,
he’s in this leafy poem that we share.
(My favorite form remains the sonnet. I never lose patience with my trial and error attempts. That much I have learned about myself while doing your PAD’s for the past few years. Thank you, Robert, for the opportunity to share and learn.)