Just when you think you can hear beyond
the mowers and raw hum of traffic
to the sound in high tree tops of the hermit thrush,
when you think the bougainvillea’s shades have deepened overnight
to wine hues, and the scent of oleander smacks
the sultry hour with its powdered perfume,
and just as you feel you are ready to accept
a purse full of disappointments,
and the sinews inside your heart
have separated song from static,
finally humming an invitation to happiness.
Just when the world is quiet, and you can entertain loss
like an invited guest who asks to sip
from whatever you are drinking,
but instead spills something deeper
that seems to pour from the nub of sadness –
and just when you think you must continue to entertain this discontent,
you let it drip onto the bouquet of lilies you have picked from a garden,
that insists on blooming in spite of what has just happened.