Listening to winters third movement
there was a prelude,
but not a proposition.
I, like a fiddlehead in spring waited
as a moonlight sonata
of snowflakes glistened in a blizzard;
firelight tangoed with shadows,
like a fantasy of glimmering fairies unfurling
into a full concerto of blazing sound.
Smiling, I whistled along thinking of the robins in spring.