song for a missed home

Summer, Oregon, Whenever.

Splayed out on the tired porch couch.
The sun peeking out from behind
schizophrenic clouds, for
the first time in months.

We stare up at the trees,
those clouds,
lose ourselves in
gentle rustling, the
the scent of dust.

The music of Liszt
now Debussy
now Schubert
(now some Name
I could not hear clearly...)
drifts out the screen door.

A joint curls
in our fingers,
spicing our lungs,

its smoke rising,
dissipating,
conversing with

our laughter and
faint melodies
(Was it Ravel?)
lost in happenstance glare
and warm breeze.

Breeze which now
beckons the looming trees
to dance.

Soon they will be quiet giants
swaying with Ravel,
unsure of the time.