Writing about sharing writing.
An accordion and a clarinet once danced together before a set of drums, and the aural ghost of their exchange is frenzied as it floats around the café room.
A line ‘tween Autumn/Summer clear.
A place so full and hillside-located; pink, lit, ‘n green.
When’s’t, where’s’t, the poignant pivot-point?
The wind stabs among the players every couple of bars,
a forceful beat formed by the rustle of the trees.
Attention lavished only as your arc falls to conclusion.
(to the usual) time of day,
adorned with diff’rance.
I used to sit in the wind of the morning, hearing them shout out numbers.
I keep my seat, for now alone, my mind as the morning and the city: awake and peacefully awaiting more.
I give voice to her name again, though I do not shift my gaze.
Cities in parallel, blended; the nearer past and ancient times.
Stillness. So still, so quiet.
Told through tense interpretation, their tales light the night and meet the morning.