I search for a song,

its changing vowels:

seas, canals, rivers.

My thoughts are

golden bobbing

dories:  sometimes

the boats sink, all soggy:

sometimes you lift

one out of the water

and unfold it:

sometimes the ink

has run:  sometimes

the words are crisp,

clear.  On rare mornings

you hold one of my dories,

perfectly formed, in your

palm and you float

with me: on those

blue-bright days

you are the song.

Eleonore Schönmaier