It’s a busy, buzzy, jazz of a day

even the hibiscus, seem to sing scat

through half bloomed mouths

 

and those daffodils, dizzy with love

all sex and come on, beckoning backdrops

of doo whaps through the breeze

 

there’s a whole band blare out there

calling to the recluse, who tries

sonnets behind shutters, wants to cradle

 

her head against the high jinx

of the laughing muse, who snaps its fingers

throws its hat too high to catch.