after David Foster
The melody can not be denied, pulled
from dreams, a lifetime of heartbeats.
First, come notes that the piano mulls.
Fingers linger. He returns to his sheets.
The tune reveals itself in black on white,
echoing into ivory. A full moon prowls
rakish clouds that seem to skirt its light
like words that evade him. So, he scowls
at the window, takes the stillness inside,
then plays as everything falls into place.
There it is. The chorus no longer hides.
David knows the night, how it encases
a song. Lines love keys, provoke ebony,
as darkness unlocks perfect symphonies.
*David, I know you prefer the new minimalist sonnets, something which you showed us and I do plan to explore those as well. Thank you for what you bring to Soup.
Thinking of you and the Mrs! Blessings sent to both of you!