The Rhythm

The Rhythm

Sometimes clouds turn their face to the sun

To let a perpetual kind of light reflect

Something almost golden–

Often, this is the time I think of you.

And sometimes the leaves are much too green

In a way that underscores a gentle surprise,

And much like an echoing requiem– I think of you.

Then there are the moments that like to float

Arriving on dust and city smoke

And almost coming out of nowhere,

(Though we both know the root)

The simple rhythm comes back: 

I think of you.