These are registers on the staff
of days: grains of dust that gather
like vellum in summer, the high and lazy
whirring of ceiling fans. Drifts of yellow
petals falling from the tulip trees, pitch
and warble of birds. Gather and gather,
lisp the ants and worker bees; pluck
and scour. The season lilts like a song
working the route to its coda. Lyric by lyric
the mouth learns the intricate passages:
where the rests are, and the furrows.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.