Poem Left On A Desk
At the writing desk above the ocean’s waves,
a small wind-up piano box of music
begins to whirl and play
Its melody is simple and yet ,
has the power to pull
a tear from the eye.
There is only a chair for one,
there is only room for one more here
beneath the cloud-filled indigo sky.
There is a heart that creates ruins below on the floor.
plants shaded groves of tea and solitude
and the surf pounds at the doors.
Nostalgia is the name of the cold dark keys tonight,
the white ones beg in tune beneath the pale light,
if you build a fire too near a field of wheat,
the wind could come and catch a spark
one that has escaped the ending,
because it feels itself still burning.
If the wind blows ’round just right,
that spark might set a wheat-field
wild on fire in the night.
Dec. 18th, 2010