Hidden Judges

A morning taps a finger to the nape in awe,
a lovely and incessant sprinkling change
from dainty dawn to when our name is called,
when work and goals, at times, are pre-arranged.
We are not taught to listen to ourselves;
we tap-dance for a boss, obsess with things,
more things, until our spirit under whelms
itself. The thing is whether you can sing.
The drones will twiddle thumbs and tap their heads
and when you die, they toss your private stuff.
Try this; walk by a big old tree, your hands
cupped over eyes, and listen: hear the riff?
Right. You can hear a tree. It echoes dense.
Avoid the hidden judges. Tap your senses.