Like the trumpets playing softly
stroke the rhythm of loose thoughts,
today I find it held in little pockets
snug as the bumble bee in a foxglove.
Yesterday it submerged me whole,
carried inside each falling raindrop.
Sometimes it merely whispers
lifting stray hairs off pale temples.
Precious as the living ivory walks,
sought keenly like those bleeding –
diamonds, deep below the collapsing
soil and sun of mother Africa’s smile.
Elusive it remains a Wil-‘o-the-wisp
uncatchable, it clings when least expected.
© Copyright 2013 Abigail Baker