Quatrain
by: Billy Collins
When a woman
in a low-cut blouse
walked by,
the grocer in the doorway
raised his eyebrows
revealing the four lines in his forehead.
Music has always been a big part of my life. I remember my mom playing Doris Day as she cooked in the kitchen. Falling asleep to soundtracks of South Pacific and Oklahoma. Cruising with my brother in his van, listening to "Bungle in the Jungle." Church music. Disco. Country. Broadway. Classical. Punk. Pop. Acid. I listened to them all. Perhaps that's why poetry seems like breath to me.
It has been a quiet day. The most excitement I had was walking to church to play the pipe organ for Mass. I took my puppy for a few walks, too. And, for some reason, I thought about my sister, Rose, a lot.
Most of my faithful disciples know Rose had Down syndrome. And she loved music, too. She couldn't really carry a tune, but she could move and dance like Chita Rivera. All day long, I've been hearing Rose's voice and laugh. This morning, when I took my dog for her first spin around the backyard, the lilac bushes along the property line were full of birds singing in the bright sunshine. That made me think of Rose, as well.
She's been gone for a couple years now, but she's still present somehow, like an old tune that reminds me the world can be really beautiful.
Saint Marty misses his sister's offkey voice.
Tacet
by: Martin Achatz
Birds in the lilac bushes
this morning reminded me
of my sister's eyes right
before she died:
as if she
was surprised by her silent
heart and lungs, her spirit
still perched for a few seconds
in the branches of her body
before taking flight.
❤️
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