Last Summer Prelude

In late August

Chromatic scales slur and thrum,

Ricocheting tree to tree

On a million Cicada legs.

The scordatura made more brilliant by

Layered crescendos of

Skylarking bird, and squirrel in sharp exchange….

Except at Brahma Mutra.

This first light of defining silence

Is the conductor’s inhale,

Arms lifted, finger extends

‘Wait-Wait-Hold

Now!

The arm slashes down into

The morning’s polychoral cry and response.

Before that prima volta,

In the light not yet lush,

Before the indefinite pitch of snare drum,

Chimes, or Temple Blocks,

I enter the silent, sacred space

To wander its thousand petals,

The colored fragrance of love.

There the Black Prince sleeps.

He with his Bee-Lords

Nestle upside down,

Pillowed within pink and purple Phlox,

Nodding in accepted weight.

This holy moment

Of soundless, almost light

Prepares the music within.

I might become Kabir’s ecstatic flute

To play my own Brahma Mutra.

I am his ‘bee of the heart-

Deep inside the flower-

Caring for no other thing.’