Some awful fine bluegrass bounds through the room
Filling space like an ether of hearthrobs
Rumi harmonizes from the thirteenth century
Obviously in love with the forsythia bramble
Cut this afternoon fresh from a trance in the garden
The sky it was suede and the leaves all were flying
Obviously nothing around here is taking the night off
Neither the silence nor the sound; not the darkness
And surely not the light. So neither am I.

J. Marcus