In which a long-time record collector and sometimes poet shares shares vinyl finds, words of worth, and plays keep or cull.
Listen
to the rain
it is the voice
of spring
sweeping
winter’s ashes
revitalizing everything
listen
to the rain
another day
is coming
its fingers
on the windowpane
nervously drumming
listen
to the rain
it is not always sad
do not listen
to me
i have nothing
more to add
i started
this endeavor
the same
as always
in exile
trying to find
my way
home
the first time
you heard
your heart beat
did you know
you were complete
or did you
go looking
for another
assign it
to a string
of lovers
and when
you were done
following it about
did you modulate it
count it out
what is it
about that sound
that resonates more
than any word
that is
so intent
on being heard
who
would even attempt
to play
a blue piano
on a day
when even the weather
cannot decide
what to do?
Your song arrives from far away with no signs of distress. It was a surprise. I did not know that you had my address. I had to sign for it. It’s good that I was in. You never know when something like that will come your way again. I took it out, I tried it on to see if it would fit. I spent at least a day or two familiarizing myself with it. It says that you are happy. It says that you are well. It says one or two other things that few people think to tell. Having sung it once or twice, it seems to suit me fine. Almost to the point where I sing it as if it were mine.
