Chopin at 4 am
Echoes of a nocturne rise above the keys,
arias remit requited love but are not lost forever.
I sing, though out of tune, not out of time
I sing to reach you far away beyond the mortal coil,
beyond the edges of reality, just past
tomorrow, where I sit lazily and wait for
progress. I realize that touch is voices magnified,
forgotten waiting for the train, its whistle wakes the dead,
chords announce last memories of you, of me
together merely sitting, my hands clasped, watching for
the striking of the eighty-eight, your fingers stretching out
to stir emotions cast long ago, begin again the Prelude
to reflect the perfection of a raindrop.
© November 2020
April in Paris
No spoken words between us, only the echo of tones,
vibrations for another afternoon, quietly approaching
each moment as if dampened by time, seeing only
the black and white reflected as we sit together
watching an unknown bird soaring across the avenue,
as thermals lift our spirits to the next passage,
building to a sudden crescendo, reaching beyond.
It is only Steinway’s voice we hear as you strike each key,
as you lift each passage from the sheet with care,
following the master’s instructions without hesitation,
until you reach the final half-note chord. Never in silence,
Ballade No. 4 colours each occurrence of regret, each lunch
along the Seine, each stroll past the Pyramide du Louvre
where the glass reflects every particle but our love.
© November 2020
Evening
As clear as a melody in air, I step across
the stream, conscious of regret
but hopeful that your love repairs all
injury that came before our fated union
in the night where all the blackness,
hidden by the hour, cuts deep.
Every note—quarter, half or whole—within the nocturne
blends and binds the skin of resolution so any open wounds
will fade as the keys you play support and strengthen
that which I now believe myself to be. Completely yours.
© November 2020
