Breathing Low & Steady

By Rudolph Lewis

The white moon waxes

                    a purple night dome

                              of heaven, turning

                                               on its back,

toward the horizon,

holding water—heavily

                           like a bitch

                                  her unborn litter

in the air dry flies

cry for rain

             drops falling

                     like spears

                          on florid leaves,

earth’s beauty

                thinning

                     coming down wet

                              with age to bared limbs

& gray skies

Life always strips

                   down in season

                                    to truths

                   & our favorite things—

                                                solitude,

                                                      the uneasiness

of desire,

          longing for a touch

                              just out of reach

piano keys riffing right

                          in the back of a blue room

                                          heart strings thumping,

                                                             skipping beats

sand on cymbals

                tapping, dancing on

                                  high wires over

the abyss,

          flying melodies

                   of Trane’s soprano sax

Early morning holds its breath

3 November 2003