Morning Light

I’ve got pockets full of words and phrases
Walking in the quiet of a Sunday morning fog
That still holds the sunlight of last evening.
They bounce along hanging onto a sentence
Yet never find a home
Or a comma to pause at and look around,
Volunteering to change positions with another adjective,
As if it were their partner at a local barn dance,
Flaring a noun that dances out onto the floor.
Where the scent of hay, high in the loft
Smiles at the charm of a violin
That dances alone
Hoping to stitch its loneliness
With an evening star
Into one dance, before last call.