Like prompters in the
Street-Corner-Gutter-Box
I move in rhythms all my own,
Intercept myself and
Succeed shadows of Spring
Like the acquaintance welcome
Of an old friend.
Like the shadow brush
On my window sill
It’s a wonder’s moment:
 Love;
In time,
 winter-born
 with no poetry
 in rhetoric bliss

I’m like canyon canons
In rhythms all my own.

© K. James Ribble