Cloud spills of pale crimson
stain the predawn sky.
Hurry with a brush
to add your own strokes;
the cleaning lady comes at six,
who likes an all-blue floor,
but you can outwit her
with your mind’s camera,
the one called memory.
First music must be soft,
Mozart or maybe Mendelssohn,
man-made sounds mingling
with the silent noises of the night.
One lone cardinal
on the wall of broken branches
defines the quintessence of red
in the light that Claudius was calling for.
July 31, 2007
No comments:
Post a Comment