The bride sits in refined profile,
poised as a hush of Spanish roses,
beside a shadowed arbor waiting
for all seasons and capricious lights.
Her white sleeves fan out in woven lace,
textured of shy moons and old traditions.
In the silence of her sitting, the listener
who looks deeply enough can uncover
traces of tones from shape and gesture
and countenance of grace and compassion.
He will look into the hush and hear a sonata
played by De Larrocha, so redolent of roses
flourishing and thoughtful in a fountain garden.
Yes, a piano plays without making a sound --
homage to a princess who could be sitting
junto al mar en un jardín de Barcelona
and dreaming of her fine dashing groom
who already knows the value of melodies
that play always upon her complex brow
and upon her soft darkening cheeks of life.
Ah...but my niece is not Spanish.
It must be some magic in the wine
that makes Old Uncle imagine a scene
within a scene of beauty and fond sighs.
Forgive him for getting lost in fragrances
of roses imagined, of time becoming music.
The "señora" is sitting, and poems float upon her aura.