Music Class

Music Class
 
Deep in the cloisters of terracotta  
belles effloresce with beaus  
among rows of wooden desks  
where coeds have sat for a century  
while breathing sighs of summer love.  
Their poetry is the blue sky  
under which gardens blossom  
in sonnets of sunshine  
heaped in bales of gold.

The young ladies chatter like Chickadees  
with gentlemen in a college-lyceum  
where Bach can’t compete  
with green grass and blue skies.  
So we follow the sun  
onto the campus green  
where lasses are peonies  
whose windblown fragrance  
is a kiss for lads  
while I sit in a Buddha pose  
with the heart of a child.