Life of Hours

The street that likens red-faced tomatoes

to chimes, that cascades the gushing flow downhill

of similarities and stop signs, becomes my day

and life for a day, or a life of hours. Jumbled

pencils in a plastic bag, night wind still shivering

by morning, I announce my commencement -

a beginning not an end, in ticks and gentle

cracks of house wood and mind words

and a spell on the day to save each sound.

I’m nowhere in a forgotten legacy of time

you greet as it rolls down your street in rain,

invisible gust, or drying sunlight, whispering

nothing by saying the names of colored sounds.Even when they don’t ask you anything, wandering by.