Life With Horace

poetry & essays

The mystery of my tears

2 Comments

When I sing, music puts its hands around my heart
My words think tears are a puddle to splash through shoeless

Color often stops my breath, and I am held its prisoner
A sudden memory might need release

Any of these call up tears, and I don’t mind.
When the signal comes they might glide to me in a waltz,

or whirl up on the skirts of a wild mazurka.
Better yet, ride in on the smoothness of an alto sax.

Author: Life With Horace

Poetry & Essays

2 thoughts on “The mystery of my tears

  1. I can hear that alto sax Darlin.

    Like

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