Rosamunde (after FS)

1. Allegro ma non troppo

Questions in the wake from a passing boat.
The surface, once calm, is broken
and each ripple announces another variation
of a ripple that is a question.

The cottonwood casts the initial shadow into the water.
Reflected and absorbed
as shadows breaking through cascades of light
and bits of cotton
announce shadows of answers.
Sparkling waves of heat rise into the atmosphere.

Dotted dark and light,
annotated and inconsequential,
forming and reforming the
silhouettes of the leaves flouncing
against a sky going pink.
The boat pulls into the dock.

The question is
what is it that swims
with red ear turtles and sturgeon?

As it is below it is
not always the same above.

The idea of desire
(not a fish coming to the surface and
breaking into the air,
catching a midge)
is not always in the heart.

The heart is the reflection of a red ear turtle
passing through the shadow of cottonwood leaves
and the interplay of
light and shade on cotton dust
floating down the river.
A sunflower drifts by in the reflection of a cloudless sky.

Sometimes it can take an afternoon to see reason.
And, can only bring more.

Another day in a different light,
(Is the question light or dark?)
silence is the space between notes
(of a score)()
and the space between breaths
(held, silent and inhaled)
becomes a kind of deep fried,
(comfort)
a kind of silken,
(cream puff dick)
a once and a while spin,
(I do not know where to go with this.
I do not know where this is going.
I do not know.)
a once in a moon some time,
(the moon comes up behind the levee
and wakes up above the trees)
once in a lifetime when
I place my feet at the edge of the boat
and dive into the river
coldly and knowing.


2. Andante

That you do is understood.
Dancing into the space between
the possibility
and the day
that the rays of light
fell onto the wall
through the Venetian blinds.
Lines from a song
yet to be written.

Listen
to others
more
than tell to others.
Listen to the light
and shadow on the sandbar
at the confluence of the Feather and Sacramento rivers
on a Sunday afternoon in July.
The sun burned a wife beater
on my shoulders.

The one thing
that i need is,
the one thing I hear is
the slice of zucchini on a grill.
All morning
the hummingbirds
vied for territory and
red sugar water.

Do I want red sugar water?

A red ear turtle
on the reflection
of the memory of touch
on an old iron bed
is the bed
reflected in the mirror
above the rust stained sink
in a hotel room near Termini.

The light and dark reflections of
one afternoon in Rome.
You are standing at the window
looking out into all this bright sparkle.


3. Minuetto, Allegretto

Do I want to dance?
I do
want to dance between
the lips and the rest.

I want to play the violin?
Instead, I play maracas in the church choir
at the Altadena church
of Ecstatic Revelation
in the Holy Spirit of Understanding the Body,
(the heavenly and holy body
in which my soul resides).
But, do I want to dance?
I do
and lower myself
to my knees.

Dancing is a prayer
in praise
of this story

trudging knee deep up river
into current.
Pushing enough to propel forward
and knocked back a little sometimes,
we are wading
and moving towards a log.

It was very slow going.
We persisted and delivered ourselves one step further.
One never knows.
The flow is stronger
until we release our feet,

floating away into the current
I feel hope when
I forget how it is all put together
and trust love
from ghosts and the grieving,
from births and rejoicings.
I feel hope when
I can touch my feet to the earth.


4 Allegro moderato

I never thought it would be
the interior of Ste. Chapelle,
cool stone and glitter glass stories.

I never thought it would be
the first Vatrushka
or merguez,
or store bought butter in France.

That balcony overlooked the rooftops of the Marais.
Those interior walls were covered with grass cloth
and foil backed wallpaper.
The double glass door in the bedroom
opened out over the courtyard four floors below.
Covered with ivy,
The sky was perpetually gray
off the rue St. Paul.

I never thought it would be
walking down the rue de l'Odeon
between Sylvia and Adrienne,
when I knew you would die before me.
I knew I would be bereft
and that I would walk into
the Memorial to the Deportation
and each light would
flicker, one by one
into thousands.
I knew I would take your ashes
and released them into the Seine.

But, did I know
that one day I would
see that you are always here.

It comes and goes.
The river rises and bends.
The leaves rustle in a breeze.
The heron flies across the sky and lands in that oak.

You are and are.