Avaloch

What a wonderful thing to be late

for a concert in a small town.

Too embarrassed to walk in and

have all your neighbors stare,

you creep up the outside ramp

of the old Parish house and crouch

beneath the windows that are

open to the summer evening.

The strands of violins mix

with the fading calls of birds,

the cello not quite masked by

the growl a pickup cruising by.

Overhead

clouds

drift

There's a splinter poking the

tender skin behind your knee

but you dare not move lest you

drop from heaven back to

after dinner chores and

tomorrow's lists to write.

For one perfect moment

you understand the scope

of this life -- from daily

to divine.