As each day's beat beneath me subsides,

it requires a bell-pull at my brain

to schedule for tomorrow's June day

sense with dashes of sensibility,

each day no longer a medieval cathedral

buttressed by my engaged and engaging

students of Romantic and modern music history.

 

Today I wish, as I have wished,

since drinking in my first symphony, to spark

some emotion with orchestrated sounds,

emotion that when integrated

someplace in leaps across the brain

drives the hearer to alter experience

of each day that once was taught

with paper hands on a paper clock.

 

This heady fuel sends me by myself

away from my partner-in-love

striving to recall how to

make chaos into creation

that can serve for any day

that rainy day, any season

or lightly breezy day in early May

before pretty petit buds

become a green expanse of leaf.

 

This June day, my partner-in-love

expresses un-orchestrated turbulence.

My beats and measures can rest for an interim.

I sense a need to turn my ears,

attuned to an inner journey,

outward to her soliloquy,

of passionate sensibility.