The incessant Serenades

T
Often tossing and turning in bed,
I hear a mélange of sounds.
The winds are bloated with myriad songs,
ranging from ‘times they are a changin,’
to slivers of ‘yesterday once more’,
ah, the ‘sunshine on my shoulders’ still
‘makes me happy.” It really does.

The clock dutifully ticks away,
I hear the rustle of the night
as it picks up the hem of its dark skirts,
gingerly traipsing away making place for a new day,
which comes cracking,
tactfully sending the night packing,
bundling away its golden accessories,
to unpack again after a few hours.

As the dawn dabs a roseate streak
upon the edge of the sky,
traveling upon the puffed up wings of the wind,
I hear the incessant serenades of the waves
from a land I left behind,
purring its incessant melody like a stroked kitten.

A deep lassitude covers me from head to toe,
and lo and behold!
I morph into a tiny lyrical note of that music,
a forgotten fragrance nudging me into remembrance,
a limp effervescence.
But I wonder why, the sunshine in my eyes makes me cry
as I hear the happy chuckle of a toddler,
and watch him trying to grasp the sunbeams
and gobble them up.