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.