Now that all the windows are open, letting
kindly breezes into the house instead of
shutting out the merciless winds of winter
fiddles are playing.
Under ground they’re sounding their strings on fingers;
bows with horsehair stretched to the frog are twinging
whining, sighing strains to a demi-semi—
There, by pebbly pool is a patch of shaded
sod where tiny scrolls have begun to pop up
green and coiled as fine as a bishop’s crozier—
chthonic music deep in the earth is playing
waltzes, grand cadenzas, spiccato, thrusting
spirals, pushing songs to the sun, see? Hear them?
Maybe it’s me.