James Taylor wrote a song that said
“Time isn’t really real,” and I’ve heard
That in other places as well. My head
Always balked at this notion of blurred
Eternity invading the measured spread of hours
And days brilliant brains assigned to Earth’s
Revolution. But I feel this theory’s powers
Whirring past at globe-spin speed, births
And deaths of spirit-knit carbon rushing
By me as if chest-deep in a river
Alive and autonomous. Attempts to dam it are crushing.
So I swim and see where the current will deliver.
The lyric cites Einstein–he was mystified, too.
I’ll renounce understanding–I’ll float and cherish the view.

At 6:15 a.m. the birds begin
Their heavenly communication. Sequences
Of eighth note triplets call out questions in
The morning cold, and half note falling frequencies
Answer. Their exchanges evaporate early
Brain fog and buoy up my middle guts
Like a helium balloon. Leftover swirly
Dream thoughts clear, and my chatterbrain shuts
Its beak for these brief measures. Unable to rest,
It queries in its nerdiest voice, “What kind
Of bird IS that?” Like a museum guest
Fixated on the label, canvas-blind.
They don’t sow, reap or gather, these singers.
Their unworried tunes are sunrise joybringers.

A sonnet is fourteen lines, seven times
Two — and since I squeaked in just
At the end of 19-double-seven, I must
Have developed an affinity for the rhymes
That can only fit in lines assigned to perfection’s
Numeral doubled. I also love rules.
They were the things that proved my ego’s tools
To construct an edifice designed for pain deflection.
See, if I get it right, then I’m in–
In where, I don’t know, but I’m not
Out. That would hurt and cause a lot
Of sensation labeled fear. Rules = win.
That’s why (though I floundered) I liked ballet.
No one telling you to improv–just do what they say.

Where were you when you learned that love held
Conditions? What was the moment when cause
And effect taught the lesson of merits that swelled
In your mind like a sprained joint? Learning the laws
Of deserved connection — that’s the tenuous path
You may not veer from if you are to maintain
Your safety sense in your ancient brain. Math
Of a higher order is required: you strain
To balance the equation and solve the variable
Weather conditions, but wind doesn’t blow where you bode,
And your stick house in the woods, durable
As you believed it was, wasn’t built to code.
Sitting on leaves, you feel the sting of rain.
Standing, you find that you can walk with pain.

My students taught me that when a pop song
Elicits certain feels, it’s appropriate
To say, “That’s a mood.” They’re not wrong.
Frequency relationships arranged commensurate
With time have that effect. I taught my pupils
That ostinato means a note gets played
Over and over, and when a composer puts duples
and triples together, that’s how tension gets made.
We long for a different note to sound. Our guts
Catch or want to undulate the mismatched beats
Out of our limbs. In ancient well-worn ruts
Our neurons wheel, and the song repeats.
My brain has practiced that–dissonance rehearsed.
With humble harmonies I’m getting better versed.

The New York Times sends me morning briefs,
And the subject line insists this information
Is crucial to the day’s commencement. Griefs,
Intractable power wringing, and a nation
In need of some C batteries for its soul-
Finding flashlight crowd the bullet points
Interspersed with tales of the viral toll
Biological and technological. Joints
Designed to keep the body politic moving
Seem inflamed and brittle these days. Reading
This electronic newsprint, I’m feeling
The tight-wound anxiety outside preceding
Me on masked errands–let’s get some healing.
To start your day, know this: you are loved.
By your inestimable is-ness my theory is proved.

Some moments the wise part of me
Hovers gently outside my body and observes
Me being a dad cliché, running limpily
To wave down the struggle bus. Nerves
Inflamed and awaiting the slightest brush to claim
“Irritant!”, I am the very model
Of a modern rager. Generally, I aim
To go slow, and I expertly coddle
My hubris saying, “Look at what a Zen
Boy you are.” Then my two-year-old
Does something exactly like me, and again,
I hear my mouth spout–an unvalved scold.
My words become my boys’ inside voice.
Please let my speech sing the loving choice.

Thank you, God, for thank you–the very act
Of saying I’m grateful shifts my molecules
Into a kick-ass bell choir formation backed
By saxophones. Seriously, it’s like the rules
Say, “find something you didn’t conjure
Up yourself like your breath, heartbeat,
Or a strawberry, and just add wow. Sure,
Pulse, respiration, and fruit to eat
Become quickly unnoticeable in the whir
Of electricity we’ve managed to channel into
depressive distractions grasped in our palms. These
Hands can open in humble receipt, though–renew
The remember that we hold grace-forged keys.
Thank you, God, for thank you–this technology
Plenishes this story maker’s scarce mythology.