Birdsong and Window Lace

I like to write a preamble to my creative work. Usually done after writing the work itself and placed up front as an intro, this time -- a post-script instead.  Just to say here: I love the creative freedom of vacation, and this good life.

Window cover in off-white lace

with no hint of breeze to show it open 

to that possibility, this June day--still a.m. here. 

But traffic on Avenue H says so: It's open. It's morning. 

Birdsong only in my recall of yesterday a.m.  

And just a Robin and Sparrows collude. 

But better than today in that way. 

Where are they--that quartet? 

At home she has a Mourning Dove 

resting in joy and delight at her words of love 

in vines green, and color. The light. But here, not even 

a Crow.  Oh. Wait!  As if my thought brought it to my morning. 

A cooing.  Gently.  Lonely and afar.  With traffic  

and chatter of House Sparrows.  Perfectly 

rendered from a different yesterday. 

And mine. Not Crow, but 

a Mourning Dove. 

And a gentle wave of lace.

Postscript

Rest of vacation. Or from it. Never perfect, but full and rich. I rest and write to Marily’s breathing after reading and relaxing to sleep again. Another good day ahead. Hopefully not too much play. R-n-R is what we make it.

Recalling thoughts of days ago in stress and schedule, and post on Facebook, the dove... Now birdsong. Each note or orchestration is really just for me -- each of us.  I hear it differently than you or they. Direction. Deflection. Distance and ambient happening.  All sound and events, all images in light--adjusted by aspect and attributes of heart.

It’s all a song unique to each soul. And healing and stretching and growing. Can even delete the past and paint a new beginning. Color and light. The song and dance of this moment.  

She breathes. The traffic. Birdsong and window lace.

© 2013 Ardi Keim 6/10/13

Morning Window

First it was the music. Not rock or pop or rap, but piano with orchestra backup.  The window is open. A neighbor appreciates a finer reality of life.  I write.

Morning window
birdsong light breeze
on orchestral melody
these memories undefined
surreal and fleeting
yet never ignoring our past
elated recalling
your smile
warming and cooling
this love
intense and receding
the phases completed
the touch
of your hand
and always this feeling
of more
that is needed
your name is my song
now reconnecting with you
was the music
the window
the day of this morning
with you.

Where did it come from?  What window is this?  And Who?
Sometimes things come through--I know not from where.  Others, I hold close.