Page 10 - Contrast1998

Musician's Widow

Here, beneath warm blanket, my world is simple,
while all beyond the window re-forms to red and gold and fall
with all the halting cadences of rain-gusting wind.
Slender light slivers through thick curtains; I tum my face
and something sunlit shifts within my mind--
caught unprepared, I remember his music.

A face fills me, painted by forgotten music:
curious man, with dancing hands, so sure, so simple;
his sweet roughness would stick--how did he slide from my mind?
The way he played his heart for me those glorious, fall-
colored days, crescendoes breaking on my upturned face,
all his October-touched notes scattering in the wind ...

Now the window groans as the mounting wind
pours cold into the corners of my room, ragged music.
Shivering, I use the grey crochet to hide my face
and my cheeks burn like a child's, accused and simple-
minded, after a heedless stumbling fall.
Did I stitch this blanket? It's not the forgetting I mind

but the sudden remembering, like some other mind
thrust into my head ... When did he surrender to the wind?
The way he holds his hand--just so--to make the melody fall,
pulling me further into forgetfulness--fragments, broken music:
prayer for the end. It would be so simple
to join him at last and look death in the face ...

Slant of light from the autumn outside--could that be his face?
Learning again to listen to the humming tunes caught in my mind;
my fingertips practice rhythms on the sill, glasspane percussion simply
the passing of some ancient god, soaring in his chariot of golden wind.
Those storm-green eyes still hold me, sing my world with his music
though now I know full well winter follows fall.

My worn hands grip the armrests so I won't fall--
When did I get so old? Just yesterday he said my face
reminded him of sunflowers and summer music
and he couldn't get my laughter from his mind--
laundry line laughter, straining against the pushing wind.
He blew away; I must content myself with being simple.

Each fall the same--to sleep, or death, or autumn--in my mind.
He was the finest of them all, face bright, hair wild in the wind,
playing love to me with his music ... Strong and simple.

Joy K. Hoffman

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