Moonlight Sonata

Standing here savoring a sip of Chianti,
I gaze at the river reflecting the night sky.
The reeds hug the shoreline and
Sway in the shadows.
I smell the brine drifting
On currents of spring air.

In front of the stone wall, the hens are asleep in their
Henhouse beneath the faint limbs of a cherry tree.
Everything’s silent
Save barks in the distance.
I set down my glass
On the bench by the porch stair

And watch as a heron glides into the marshes,
Returned to the nest she built there in the rushes.
Then suddenly over the trees on the far bank,
A sharp edge of moon flares,
Igniting the river.
The heron cries out her song,
Wings spread and backlit.
The cherry limbs spring to life,
Fingers of black on white. . .

Now I know how such a scene could have moved him.
I reach for my pen, and it’s then that I see him
Before me, a ghost sitting there in the moonlight,
Bent fingers on ivory, engrossed in composing.
He dips in a quill and then
Scratches away, melding
Measures with meters
And toying with phrase.
He’s so lost in his harmony,
Melody, ecstasy,
Toiling on,
All alone,
Note after note
Through the night.

[Previous published in Vain Magazine]

1 comment for “Moonlight Sonata

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