MomsBook_asof9.18.17

A Recital In (and for) the Dead of Winter
January 27, 1991
Today the Sabbath sun pours through
chips and panes of pigmentary glass,
all purple-pink and muted rose.
Rainbows shift and move
in metric time across the marble floor,
while rhythms rush and rise
between the hammered strings.
Meanwhile, half a world away
a war begins. The bombs and shells
cascade like frenzied dancers
to the cadence call of doom.
Here, within this dappled room,
gentle fingers bring the notes to life,
as loving hands entice a sweet response.
And yet ~
While music comes to rest
in classic symmetry,
a question trembles
on the silent strings;
What hope is there for peace?