There’s a rhythm for words I feel I’ve forgotten, much like the dream last night of you. It is almost there, the rhythm and timing, and I can remember the way you looked at me in my dream, much like you looked at me sleepy from the couch this morning, when there was no coffee, as I left for work, your thoughts a million miles away with things you need to do but would rather be doing something else.
The tempo of written or spoken language, it’s different for differences apparent only in contrast. So much of my time is spent dancing, in which the rhythm and melody are reflected with my feet and hips rather than my formed thoughts swept out by fingers on a keyboard. Music inspires the soul to move the body; give me something I can feel.
I walked a while beneath wires, power lines telephone lines connective lines that break up the stretch of the veiled misty sky, sun a dull white orb low to the east. The sidewalk buckled above the shrugging roots of sweet gum trees, with their leaves in graduated color from emerald to vermillion with the onset of last night’s frost. I can write color, I can sing a little, I can count my bootheels tock tock tock on my way to do what I need to do but would rather be doing something else, thoughts a million miles away.