Their songs spill over the fence
Along with the scent of warm charcoal.
The neighbors from Burma preparing for a feast,
Serenading me
And my rake
And my garden
On a fine April afternoon
Now hip-hop, now rock ballad
My ears yearning to learn the words that are in their own language
And then — a song in English.
Leo Sayer from the early '80s
And we are all singing —
Voices from their yard,
A really strong tenor from across the street,
My own among my weeds,
Even the birds harmonizing —
We raise our collective “Whoa whoa yay yay”
To the blue sky,
Our hearts soaked in music
Giddy with the promise of warm days to come
So we sing to them —
To our lives,
Our people,
Our universes —
Our hearts so full,
We love them more than we can say.
