Each morning, you bring one;
you bring a song or memory with you
and set to it as if to a table waiting.

You find yourself there in things you brought,
things you found there;
innocent songs, chaste statements of youth.

You are there, among melodies and harmonies
tonally rich and pleasing. You are there,
leafing through books long forgotten.

And all at once, it’s morning; no sun yet.
You had forgotten that there is supposed to be sunlight.
You turn down your lamp and go outside.

Leave your songs alone — they will not save you;
leave your stories aside — little to be learned there;
Close your eyes and re-open them to this day

that awaits with joys and disappointments
galore for you. You will take them as they come:
songs just now recalled, books waiting to be written.

Some of it will come easy; some, much harder;
some of it will be brutal to parse and explain —
and to write it, to sing it? Impossible, you foolish man;

nonetheless, you keep trying. Trying forever,
up until a moment of closure — one last drop in
a teacup; a next to last note in some stunning lullaby.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
onward,
T