DECEMBER BLUES

Trees take their leave of us
your lover is gone
life is anonymous,
green days are over
there are not even
red wing black birds
on lawns
by the public park bench
near the swan boats
on the Boston Common
were I read Breton
in French
now empty of children
who want one last ride,
my sax and viola
need a tune up
and your doctor says
you have a case of lethargy
with the blahs and blues
and there are no words
for a Beat to write out
on graffiti walls
except to remember
at your last love letter
on the fourteenth of December
but do not know what year
even to speak of
until the spring spins out
on a blanket for two,
that you still hear voices
chiming in on branches
with birds surrounding you
with your favorite melody
as a landscape poet
of chance
you take out your violin
to play the czardas
in a Brahms Hungarian dance.