I can’t reconcile melancholy 

In this soft September sun.

There’s you, still, 

and the knowing.

An uncertain breeze 

whiffles the long hanging branches 

of the tallest weeping cherry in town …

I'm sitting still on the porch,

breathing in all my good fortune

still inhaling, and exhaling, still here. 

But the music of my mind is a bluesy 

passacaglia and fugue

with your face on it.

Isn’t it just like us to be all 

augmented this and diminished that,

all agnus dei and alleluia 

and no amen.