Beckoning Notes: a nocturne


The memory of those
far-flung squandered days
can rise out of thin air, an apparition
evoked by something as simple
as hearing a measure or
two of Chopin coming from a further
room, or the scent of wet leaves
becoming loam because
after they fall they dream of
being married to the earth. Or then

there is the unexpected brush
of a stranger, an accidental touch
on the bus, in the store, in a narrow hall
and you realize you’ve forgotten
the newness of a person
the first tentative reaching out
the first kiss, the caress
of hands still barely known and
yet when they are gone the memory

lives on deep in cells, coiling an extra helix
into DNA, readily called forth
by trickling notes on a piano
where someone not your lost lover
waits and so you step right through that
ghost toward the song played
by those still living. Go on.



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