Lifetime Labor

Those birds that chirrup a sweet song
Perhaps they were born with gifts
But the Mockingbird learns tune by tune
Listening to the beauty of others
Note by note he copies and twists
Until his hard work yields a repertoire
As brilliant as the colors of autumn

The Lost Princess

An empty rhythm
In the castle in the sky
A waltz echoes through deserted halls
The foundation crumbles stone by stone
She who was the princess
Dances alone
Rapunzel-length tresses threaded silver
Sweep over deep indigo and turquoise tiles
No prince comes for her
Neither courtiers nor friends
The music is mummified in her mournful tread

My Favorite Hour

The warmth of three o’clock
Is hot cocoa after the steam melts
Into a white-ghost wisp
Is the sun suspended on her swing, falling
Just below the apex
Is the lingering memory of a kiss
Embraced before it grays
Recalled on the last note —
The splendor of a serenade