Life With Horace

poetry & essays

Connection

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 willing
prisoner. A sudden memory
might need release.
Any of these call up joy
or 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 “Connection

  1. I can hear that alto sax Darlin.

    Like

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