Sixteen

SIXTEEN

I fiddle with the dial.
A ravishing melody blares,
drums “dum dada dum,”
stirs silent night.
I turn off the light.
My spirit floats
through the square
of fragrant fresh cool air,
hugs the view of plumey trees
blowing below the Milky Way
and billowy soft black sky.
Red, green and gold stretch and twinkle
at the base of the hill.
“Dum dada dum.”

Enfolded in
a swirl of white,
I am
a wave, a wing, a willow in the wind,
arching and reaching,
then capsizing
onto damp tickles of chilly grass.
I peer at the sections of tangerine moon
visible through the leaves
and silky white, perfume-drenched blooms,
and I daydream,
endlessly...