It’s the words come and go,

what to choose,

how to suggest this is new,

without. repeating the same.

Watching my ceiling fan,

a new novelty,

watching its blades

create a montage

on the walls around me,

casting shadows of light,

in the evening

my living room setting.

Still looking,

at the sky outside,

the moon is rising,

strawberry Sundays.

I want to listen to some jazz tonight,

get me feeling the groove,

knowing my life is what it is,

not what I think it ought become.

That’s a favorite of mine,

when lost in the zone of language,

everything spills out,

lands wherever it may,

the beauty of saying what we believe,

knowing how to describe what we feel.