In the monthly magazine,

you are bound for glory,

standing tall, antiquated,

your lean body


 -a solemn note

of wood and wind…

anniversary time,

from the grit of a summer stage,

breath centered

on evening’s ensemble,

you etiolate

then bow gentle

 -a lost lover,

a long leaf free-floating;

from a table of notes

that slow rise before us,

you slake

your solemn sadness

into Renaissance movements

 -a passion that sky-drifts

winged creatures

 -soft-veiled lovers,

where ancient sounds

pulse precious;

leap wistfully

above the grey gauze cloud …

a poignant celebration,


bending bone and air

on perfumed breeze.