Sweet music is always beating out the vagary
stalking down the tune. On branch and limb
the warbler begins, primped in some ilk

of avian harmony, perched in song; the season
sparkles in the throats of open fields
with kisses that singe the grass in bright

yellow and reds. And we rise to these vocal workings
in a spring of old beds cluttered closets and walls.
Watch the sun spy over our shoulders

beneath these still warm sheets.
Come noon the symphony changes as an intemperate
chorus sashays in a sweltering fugue

and sunlight's enriched metaphor, now rumor,
lingers on your face. Tonight I lilt to your embrace
with fingers that conduct its sonata

across nape and cheek. Our sensual enjambment
of lips and limbs held in a breath that would sing
should even the eye of anticipation move.