Poem for Saturday, September 28, 2013

Sonata

We heard the piano first--notes struck by blood
under fingers, nothing more, carried away
in the mountain wind. They were so hopeful, and
they were so sad, floating in

the atmosphere with angels,
nitrogen and other things. The violin next, stealthy,
puncturing the air with the graze of the first string.
It took over then, defined

the whole sound: a metaphor,
you decided, for us.

           Remember when that music was still playing?

           Remember when the fog finally shrouded
           the moon?