I
woke today to a symphony
of morning sounds and sights:
yellow birds sang “Always”,
an old Irving Berlin tune,
the fog was gone,
the sun was high,
dewdrops sparkled like fine crystal
and
satin clouds watched peonies
write poems to butterflies.
But
I hate things that flutter
and I’m
not a morning person.
I’d
rather hear the sound of coins
jingling in night’s pockets,
to fetch its pipe and slippers
and
ice down its champagne.
I want
my yellow birds en croute
and
my butterflies on pins
and
I wait for purple martins
that
sing songs
by Mel
Torme.