when the song begins,
its so pronounced and clear
the timing-the silence in between the notes
if only I could learn to be so succinct
but it will not be...
I lack the training,
the discipline,
the talent.
But oh, to love the rise and fall
of these moments.
To study them as details
like brush strokes:
such a perfect canvas.
Did you hear that?
the stymied staccato
like me it is shortened and detached...
This is what it means to be ugly
and surrounded by beauty
that is the joy of this evening.
To have goose bumps rise
to have tears gather
It is winter in every song
I grow colder with every chord.
And yet we are drawn into the sounds
moths to flames,
turtles into the sea
hearts into darkness
and yet it is so perfect
so obvious in grandeur.
So enticing in leverage
that we become hypnotized
by the sirens intent.
each note is like the fallen snow
delicate, virgin, singular
until we look up
and realize we cannot discern
the flake from the storm .