Stream of Confluence

Dry leaves scuttle across the sidewalk past
traffic and laughter unaware
of their presence,
and mine.

Water sprinkler keeps time with cricket’s
chirp, and the ca-Caw, ca-Caw
of blackbird harmonizes
with distant horns
of a marching band.

I cannot remember the color of our high school uniforms

Chapel bells echo my past, playing
the same tune every hour–the same tune
our steadfast grandfather clock sang
and doorbell rang
in my childhood.

I cannot ignore the chimes, or the scuttle
of time, but I can refuse
to answer the door.