mercredi, juin 20, 2012
It is an equivocal gift you give me
The generosity of a strangerForgetting was most convenient.
Awaking though not for the coward
Flooded I am
with the taste of days
gone in which I was
a part of
world larger than this quiet byway.
Foot struck tile
Whirling down the nave
Counterpoint in 17th-century time
In the library near Julliard
A girl not yet a woman
Dreams she sees
In the stacks in Lincoln Center
She lifts her head for a moment
Hears the music, the dance
What is to come
for the woman who does not dance
or raise her voice in sweet polyphonic madrigals?
Methinks she can still hear.