This soft light glazing great boughs of green leaves.
This graceful light enfolding range of clouds
beyond glowing oaks. Horizon relieves
this falling light, descending slow as crowds
to sacred altars of night, signaling
to laughing, singing teens how now’s their time
to wander home, bright voices regaling
muse of waking stars, of shy moon’s curved rhymes
in mountains growing bold through rising dark.
Now do you understand, gazing out through
massive dusk, how Chopin wept, pounding stark
chords as though they were his last? How howls flew
from Beethoven’s throat as he glared, regret
flowing from his frantic keys at sunset?
Roger Armbrust
April 5, 2012
