The woman with the hips that sashay
wears stilettos as metronomes,
and the ceiling fan wafts its air in double-time to her beat.
This reminds me of the moment I discovered
each spruce tree knew how to play jazz,
their leaves rustling like snares
while the bees hummed Miles Davis,
or when I mindlessly plucked the spirals of my notebook
and strummed a Fender all at once
It is transferring hair
and sleeking each section into a braid
It is chocolate melting in warm milk
tracing its heat down your throat
It is the heels of the woman with –
and the ceiling fan that –
It is melodies in the mundane,
finding and accepting them as such.
So give me time in this world
to cup my ears and listen to its music.