An overture‚ an aroma‚
The young olive tree

Under which we spend 
Our hours. No time

For next week‚ no standing
In the what-nots

That give it privilege.
Clouds folding over

An inlet‚ the sky is tossed
With smoke.

An empathy of dirt and
What it buries—

Our hours and how we
Spend them. 

This is the morning
Of the still and weathered

Stones‚ around which
The bright surge 

Of sun disappears and 

The sound I will remember
You by is the bright

Birds flitting in and out
Of your eyes.

Thus the world goes on
Reading its Braille‚

And where I touch‚ 
The mind never does see.


This poem is part of BR’s special package celebrating National Poetry Month.