Melody

Spring delivers another dousing of pollen.
A trickle of blood through cob-webbed canals.
A tattoo: I Don't Deal In Absolutes.
The drift of possibility, which is hope's gift.
The song has woken. Silk voices and brass
of pearl ascend from my shadow,

matching my every move with splendor.
The pressure of it is immense. In my ribs
a mallet reanimated is letting loose, striking
every various note of wake up, don't let go,
get going, nice try, time to go, and don't cry, 
playing the music of being alive.