Morning sleet pelleting bedroom window,
creeping chill through my resting space, lifting
me from semisleep. I see London snow,
Haydn in his robe, watching flakes sifting
outside his hotel. Whitehall Evening Press
dubs him the musical Shakespeare. He fears
for his health and talent, primed by endless
feasting. Audiences amass to hear
him at the piano-forte. Outside my
townhouse, dawn light bejewels icy grass.
Glazed trees glisten. Wind creates symphony
of whispers, moans, rumors of what will pass.
I sit at my computer, day’s rhythms
rising, inviting my internal hymns.
Roger Armbrust
February 23, 2010
