Why this classical piano holds us
in mute limbo is, of course, Chopin’s fault,
even these years later when Spiritus
Mundi flowed from Yeats’ pen to page, beast caught
in the act, so to speak, carried to our
eyes, our hearts, image of ourselves in flight
from all our fears real and unreal, our hour
come round at last, don’t you know. Why just sight
of your slouching frame in that leather chair
sends me turning and turning, ocean wave
blown sideways, causes stunned children to stare
at me staring at you, don’t you see, saves
our souls before we know it. Why you can
see me, smile, think I’m just hearing Chopin.
Roger Armbrust
June 22, 2020
