I’ve tried drawing sunrise after the sunset,
and I’ve imitated the bird songs of the bush,
with the wild music of electrified guitars;
but I was a mind mixing with known recipes,
the sweet ones and the sour,
the complex and the simple,
rhyme and all its reasons for rhyming:
a child on the stage my ancestors made.

Today, there’s music that finds its way to me,
as mountain snow finds its way to the seas,
and even in wintertime as the sun takes a peek
before back to sleep it goes again, au revoir:
beta
gamma
delta
theta
sleep, little princess, for songs will come to you,

icicles glisten like the summer rivers shine,
it’s his sunlight of mine choosing his own time,
to enter when he chooses to arrive
and to abandon when he’s done
here, I am, as in a patient garden,
tapping my fingers to root rhythms,
and the worms that wiggle in the rain,
and smile without faces to smile
in my hair and my faraway toenails:

I can see it all regardless of the time,
in the dark or the light of moon,
for the light of his stars inside my body,
always illuminate what was once so invisible.

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