Today the sunlight pushed through the windows,

turning the dust into velvet and gold,
unveiling the hearts of covert heroes,
turning their voices resonant and bold:
New voices were felt from the old bottles,
and old songs were heard in the new pollen;
the bottles turned pipes, and their glass throttles
evoked a soft breeze, tropical and fallen:
But no longer forgotten in the winds,
like a clementine whose flavor lingers
indefinitely, so new taste begins
in memory of its citric fingers:
A poem is sight and flavor made sound,
where fugitive moments are always found.
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