West Village in Spring

by Albatross & Bluebird, April 2016


Buds are growing on the cherry tree

but the warm weather has not settled

they still threaten snow

saxophone running in from the sidelines

to catch the cue

before the weather turns


And the buds they pluck

and play like oak

like thick trunks

the picks and plunks

tap sap of roots and stoke

embers of lovely old coals


Tch-ch-ch-ch tch-ch-ch-ch

the brassy cymbal crash

with the snare in the right hand

one beat for each bud

on the weeping branch

of the double bass plinks


Tall trees, at the highest leaves

they sway and say,

'oh how it was in my budding day'

but can you hear the sound

bumping up from the fragrant ground

it's dirty in the freshest way

trees may bald but we're all

green from above


Brass, alchemical, changed into trumpet

plants sprouts on the drum line

reaps petals from the melody sewn

in the dirt of a Wednesday evening

when the rain has left the sidewalk clean

and the air smells like promise

and the solos hit home


Winds blow through that horn home

and they grow flowers on

time's meadows.