For a lark


Some mornings,
When doves are done complaining
And finches had their fill,
Larks take over the air waves.

They sing their crystal arias
While swallows swoop over vineyards,
When the breeze is gentle,
And the day isn’t yet scorching.

Two larks jam across tree tops,
Start a chord, a riff, an hymn,
And a short melancholy tune
Above the din of mopeds late for work.

My heart leaps when a lark sings.
It is a gift, a kiss of sweetness now,
And a recall of long easy summers
When sunny days went on forever.

A lark’s song is a savored aroma, eyes closed;
The little golden cloud cheering at sunrise;
The soft, tender, fleeting
Shade of pink caught in a girl’s blush.

When larks let rip a carefree fugue,
It’s a dance,  a soft shoe number,
A Fred Astaire glide with a grin,
And a Ginger sweep of satin.


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