I have never shared a piano on a rainy day.
Sitting alone, the notes I'd strike sounded once and fled--
as any ripple, seasonal leaf or cloud I have known.
Fingers upon the keys or drops upon a pond,
a memory was always played.
There seems no newer world than a drop upon the water.
Can you hear the urgency in the first drop upon the pond?
The hollow single treble that rhymes the summer stalks
and suggest that memories abound?
That premiere note still haunts me as rings distress reflections
and the motion of the water arrests the noonday clouds.
There is no magic in the blinking of the crimson sunlit drops
yet the naked unfolding harmonies remain no longer nursing
but are borne into my vision as the colors of the day.
These reeds that once were shadowed in the piercing solar silence
have become the equal of any bows of Stradivarius.
Encore the willing ripples!
The movement's march encompasses the memory I now hold
gazing ever deeper, deciphering all the drops
the crescendo of the moment masks my color in waking blissful symphony.
Symphony! Clearly, maniacally simple.
Borne of the same god as I
and more important!