It is you I wake to — mornings
as if you were conducting yourself on the radio
carousing in the clouds of slumber-angelic-symphony
stirring the smoke of some recent burning dream.

I fervently bled from the rhapsodies; entranced
in the way you assembled all the instruments together
laying them at my feet, by nature's walk.

I can see you understood of wanting
to make my seas brimful with sustaining life.

I feel you. Growing tall and human
amidst the laughter of your child. I see you,
within crimsoned glass. Thick with dreams,
in this world's gray dawn.

 © 2003. Excerpted from the Book
"For The Music In Our Hearts" by Minerva T. Bloom.

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