Patrick Williams’ jazz draws me into a hypnotic spell.
I melt into my chair and hear my mother from beyond, “Don’t slouch!”
The saxophone massages tensions from my neck, my head buoyant.
Syncopation strokes the shoulders. Melodies dangle me like a puppet.
A brown bird sits on my windowsill for the longest time.
She seems to know I need a friend. I am still so she will not leave.
Brown bird preening her feathery cloak occasionally looks at me.
How amazing to have the choice of staying or flight.
Prolific crepe myrtles boast bold colors to proclaim landscape dominance.
Each bloom winks at passersby, not a shy nod to a neighbor’s presence.
Crepe myrtle enters like a woman with flaming, red lipstick
and a dress that dares you to look twice. Crepe myrtle holds court.
Each night Ken says, “Dear wife, it is time for bed.” I smile at “dear wife.”
Ken is like music playing familiar notes, the pattern ever-changing.
He is the brown bird that will never leave a garden of crepe myrtle.
Peace is being surrounded by the things I love.
Route 66 