Sunday, December 6, 2009


The dark pines are weeping
as coming winter's early shrouding
swallows up the day. And night hovers
over the hour of music.

Brahms would be fitting,
in fitful agitation:
plaint of violin
and horn's resignation
bring a melancholy tone
to pianoed questions.

Maybe ice and bourbon
to blunt nostalgia's tang,
unsharpen pikes of memory
where sagging regrets hang.

Music speaks so wordlessly,
yet eloquent as ice,
and moves through utter stillness,
grave as love's delight.

I know not why I'm weeping.
It's just a mood of being.

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