Unfold
My garden is filled with
sonatas of demure pauses,
arias of high notes, clapping, and a fresh "Brava!"
The orchestral bed of roses
sways in the summer wind, the lift of flautist's arms,
the dive of the violin player's bow
sweetly fill the air with musical pollen
to accompany the choir of buzzing bees.
I, the lean conductor, smile in pleasure at my
musical companions, guiding them to a
sweeping cadenza of Beethoven's finest,
our bodies shaking with its epic vibrations
before finally plateauing in a tempered harmony.
In my hand I hold a painter's brush,
by my side, media in a vibrant chromatogram,
auburn, amethyst, baby blue, malachite, ivory, and orchid,
each winking at me in good-natured seduction
calling to me to use them, to paint the
rainbows in the sky, the gold leaf of the marigolds,
the green tint of my lover's eye as he sits
by the fountain with the spouting cupids carved in stone.
In impressionistic light, I kiss the soft petals and smell the
black earth.
From afar, a passionate soliloquy reaches my ears,
the actor's sharp pronunciation like the edge of a
silver spade, unearthing hidden feelings and emotions
in a catharsis of startling brilliance that leaves me in tears,
which water the daisies.
The masks of comedy and the masks of tragedy are donned
as we go traipsing through my garden,
the Greek chorus reciting their stilted lines
as we improvise happily around them.
I come upon a Shakespearean sonnet which blooms
with the yellow language of sincerity,
giving it to my lover as he presents me with a playful
limerick said in ruffled pantaloons.
In my garden I am happy
for Art is alive and well. It grows with
Imagination and my red-haired Muses,
those silly girls I adore and spoil with sisterly love.
In my garden I sit with a notebook,
an ink-stained scribe recording what beauty.