It is heard in the sigh of a chair,
In voices weaving down the hall.
The familiar hum of a familiar road,
The crunch of wheels on gravel.
The sound of slow breathing,
As light blushes, then surrenders.

It is seen in the arching bough,
The hanging jacaranda.
The hand which finds the light switch,
Without a second thought.
The ideas in the woodgrain,
As the...