Finding Home

Coffee brews. I found an old cd from heaps of trash in a place Of too many memories Now Mozart plays, floods the room, fills the too many spaces of a life permeates the too hardened walls of time leaves me grounded And yet free The birds without fail sing their serenade Atop our Orchid trees I sip from my cup. The phone rings But the pen is in my hand And the paper awaits It has begun to rain.

Five in the morning The birds nesting in our orchid trees, placed east, Begin to sing, welcoming a new day. And it is as if the sun waits For their singing before she rises In full glory Bursting through our jalousies Waking our sleeping bodies The blue of our curtains turn translucent white  Even the darkest dyes on linen and cotton Could not contain the light. Five at dusk, The birds return home Perching on the wires Hanging tangled above our gate facing west. Twisted from the havoc of Yolanda, That nobody from the telephone and cable company Has dared to repair. Beyond the convoluted reminder Of the devastation of November eighth, Is a vision of sunset, skies transforming into night, Baring her robe of colors --brilliant blue, russet, Saffron, magenta, purple, neon. Beautiful. Overwhelming. It seemed the sunsets have avenged the sorrow The skies wreaked on That Day. And as if such beauty is not enough, The birds sing their aria as they do in