The Silver of the Stars
We all look at a focal point in motion,
a stick moved by an arm moved by a brain.
We all have ears that listen to the rain
of timbres bouncing off the walls. What notion
had moved a mind to think of such a song,
where flutes echo the silver of the stars,
where oboes, cellos, clarinets, guitars
evoke the forest maples, where a gong
conjures up the Bronze Age? We rehearse—
a group of instruments as differing
as all the suns that make the universe.
Yet as our metals, woods, and drumheads sing,
they link us to the tremolos and trills
that once lulled us in the valleys and the hills.
(Appeared in The Chimaera.)
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