Before first light
trucks clang on the street,
the noise of traffic,
a glimmer in the east.
Wind stirs the trees,
hints of yellow showing
in the slow turn toward autumn.
I’m ready to let go the burden,
the many faces of might have been,
and take heart in the morning.
The B flat blues plays
somewhere in the distance;
as leaves fall
that mournful sound
turns the pain of regret
into music.
photograph by Louis MacKenzie
Now , my man, the wail of that saxophone is heard here on the East Coast.
B flat is fine, depending on the tempo. Too slow, and it’s not a morning sound at all. B flat seems like a West Coast sound, mostly.
True resilience, Don. I love facing what the day brings. My only regret is not learning to play the banjo. Thanks for your consistent light in my life.
Don, I enjoy the poem and the comments it provoked, including the quibbling point made by our friend Jack L. Don, you’ve awakened the band.
Rebirth into darkness…..all is needful!