Poem #5: The Maestro

She can never stop hearing the music.
When she rises, the wind haunts her
with the echo of the violin her father played.
She can hear it, weaving through the trees
harmonizing with the branches, fading back in time
for the songbird solo.
The whistle of the tea kettle,
the percussion of dishes against silverware against furniture,
all set against the backbone hum of the rising sun.
The crickets play the same concert they always have
when she’s in the garden, but here’s what makes it special--
the overture of her leather gloves,
the allegro walk through her back yard,
the adagio of planning her tools,
the scherzo of hard work,
the triumph of sweat and exhaustion.
In the evening, the insects keep time
for the sun’s longer, lazier notes.
Sometimes, she jams with whoever’s around;
sometimes, she isn’t afraid of sounding crazy on her own --
she likes to improv.
Even the silence is music of its own,
empty bars of feeling her roots sliding full and deep and tight
in the fertile soil of her existence.
Those notes, her favorite, become long and even,
carrying her steadily on into the night
into the endless rehearsal of simple, tonal dreams.