Monday, November 02, 2009
Lute Music (poem)
Lute Music
November.
Temperatures falling.
Everything still except
for the lute music
filling the room.
(Who was it owned that romantic
implement,
carried it with her everywhere,
like the woman in Hawthorneâs novel?)
All week you went looking
for who you once were.
Everything gone now
except the ghost forms
of your own memories,
soft traceries etched
on clouded glass.
Wine bottles swaying in
the cold streams.
Fires so hot
the very rocks that held them
exploded,
showering sparks
like traveling comets
splayed across the sky.
Mountain energy
spilling into love.
All the actors
now disappeared,
swallowed
in the descending mist
of the high peaks.
What does it mean
to wander through
a house where you once lived?
That you can never
go into again?
What does it say
that you are the one
left at the end
of the party,
the one
who remembers it all?
Dorothy Walters
November 2, 2009
