Free as the Bird

In the Village serenity of night,
Charlie is on his platform,
his perch,
like a blue heron
caressing his offspring with loving sound.

Standing next to the piano,
he awaits his ibis,
the black cypher at its bench,
his wingman of song.

Charlie Parker,
Bird of trill,
Nature's "Willow Weep for Me,"
the you/me of everyone
worries not if his flights
still soar long after
the day he passed over.

Did he live something
we can't?

People,
persons,
consciousness wander Manhattan streets,
metro avenues around the globe,
famished of substance,
be it music,
or just simple quiet rhythms
of inner voice solitude.

Unique it was,

this Bird kind of freedom,
infectious to some,
invisible to others.

Many will always hear
Charlie's art as a forever compass
offering connection to tomorrows' discovery,
unattached to today's passing trend.

One only has to listen...

There's a melancholy reed lathering up,
about to riff another memory
where yesterday's tomorrow will always be
for those free as the Bird.