Now that all the windows are open, letting
kindly breezes into the house instead of
shutting out the merciless winds of winter
fiddles are playing.
Under ground they’re sounding their strings on fingers;
bows with horsehair stretched to the frog are twinging
whining, sighing strains to a demi-semi—
There, by pebbly pool is a patch of shaded
sod where tiny scrolls have begun to pop up
green and coiled as fine as a bishop’s crozier—
chthonic music deep in the earth is playing
waltzes, grand cadenzas, spiccato, thrusting
spirals, pushing songs to the sun, see? Hear them?
Maybe it’s me.
…you will own the biblical hoary head. Your
tree will know how oddly a branch may grow to
sapless, brittle treachery. Fear alone will
threaten to break it.
Most of those who loved you are dead. Their absence
shadows, haunts remembering. No one living
slows to listen really or hear your story.
If you should tell it.
Breath of the morning, beautiful new forgiveness,
not a thought to limit or change or end it–
noon afire with promises, now a rush to
flushingly spend it–
all will come to evening. You are not of
your time; you are your time. A shutter
opens, closes, light on a nervous mothwing
BY THE TIME YOU…
Let eleven syllables dance on feet of
language music, all in a line together
keeping true to life in the heart and bright with