Symphony
. . . . . . . .we are one note played in high altitudes
. . . . . . . .taking time reaching ground level
. . . . . . . .wondering if the descent is worth
. . . . . . . .the same as the slow ascent
sometimes a quarter note finds rim rock or pine jut
. . . .or sometimes it finds an indigo flower without a known name
or music dwells in a crag where snow melt dribbles slowly through
. . . .on its way in no particular hurry to get there
. . . . . . . .that single note can be impeded by cloudburst
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .or primary colors
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .or absorbed into the hush of ferns
it never sounds like death
. . . .nor the eclipse of awe
. . . . . . . .nor the angle of light on the sheer rock face
the powder-blue sky begins this day as a full orchestra
. . . .clouds arrive in tuxedoes with black music cases
. . . . . . . .cymbals clash
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .then a timpani of kettle drums
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .the harsh striking violins
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .make rain
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .a crescendo
. . . .a pause. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .a silent rest spot
in the aftermath there is a drop on a white dogwood flower
. . . .and a mockingbird reaches a high pitch
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .like a piccolo
Editor’s Note: Concrete poetry is often forced into place, and meaning takes a back seat to visual form. This poem, however, echoes the shape and sound of water and storm, supporting the imagery rather than detracting from it.
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