Evening Poem, December 11, 2016

 

 

In early evening the house is quiet

I listen to Pablo Casals at Marlboro

And remember today’s race

The finisher sprinting to the end, all alone

A few now, on a high pace, cross the line

Others, now a great pack, coming later, laboring

 

But this hour now is not labor

These orchestral strings soothe

And seem perfectly fitting as the sun sinks

They lift – the violins and cellos

And on top some brass horn sparkles

Spreading melody like magic dust

Whoever wrote this knew hope and aspiration

And rest.  Of course, rest

Who says there is no mystery to life?

Nothing beneath or above

No final tying together of what we thought

Were disparate cords – or chords

This composer knew that something unknown

Travels under it all and here she gives us

One more glimpse

 

Copyright 2016

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