Friday, September 19, 2014

CEDAR VALLEY GROVE

How fragile
your hands
at the piano
has the dawn
grown still
except for Chopin
swollen by memory
from a time,
not ours, anymore
a leafy earth dust rises
across the road
after your spellbound recital
under a quarter moon
you walk on bird feathers
on Cedar Valley Grove
your fingers alive to us
radiating at dusk.

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