The faint scent of wood smoke
mingles with soft
goldfinch melodies
and the still morning air.
Not a leaf sways
on the stately maple tree,
but a single, tiny white feather
drifts leisurely down
halting in midair,
stopped by a spider thread,
the way time is stopped
sometimes, and moves backward
at the sound of a certain song
playing on the radio,
a smell that touches
a subconscious pulse,
a voice, a look,
or the way the light
shines on a particular color
or style of hair.
Who is not a time-traveler
on mornings like this,
and where is it
that we would not go?
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