THE YACHT RACE

At Marblehead it's time
for the annual yacht race,
away from the city
north of Boston
and I am here under the shed
with the critics at Tanglewood
as my uncle Linwood took us
by the sands off the ocean shore
after he gave me on Saturday
my harmony, solfeggio,
violin and conducting lesson
for my upcoming debut
of a Bach solo
knowing with his intellectual wit
his nephew would be put out
on the musical carpet
remembering the boats passing
and the motioning hands
of the extended university crew
speaking of my music's curiosity
with " The Swan" echo
of Saints- Saens sounding
as the winds blew on this dawn
and sails float and sing
with notes solace stirring
at my string's virtuosity
my mind over the laughing waters
in a grimaced luminosity
tracing along my fading memory
leaning on garden grounds
waiting for a faceless spring
to disappear on a horizon
and pardon winter's everything.