Rain on snares meters the pace.
Smooth, rolling, blue.
The sax man wails.
A smoke-filled club . . .
And the night . . . melts . . . into yesterday.
Time flits through
On wings of an old song.
The ivory tones chase strings of gold
Through the gentle, crashing waves.
While we race the bleating brass,
The bass line leads us home.
a study in composition
bowl of fruit, balanced with delicate precision
light on the apple, turning red to white in harsh contrast
rough skin juxtaposed with silky smooth
slender and tall tops the squat round green
landscaped cloth coats the mahogany boards
depression glass bowl keeps epicurean treasures
frozen in time, never to nourish the body, forever to nourish the soul