Over the fields, shielded by deep firs
the Harp of Night awakens.
Autumn darkness fingers the cold
strings
and quickens the winds that marvel
and moan,
to delight and dance and pursue,
to shimmer a heart into ecstasy,
to ladle me into a fathomless well of Mystery.
At twilight I would savor her velvet
beauty
and, placing my hands over her
highest strings,
stroke down and down, playing
the glissando of
my life as I move through the
years
until the deepest strains tally
my time.
Sometime my Conductor
will cue from beyond the veiled firs,
me to unbind my final encore
from the womb of the night’s own harp
until rallentando, decrescendo, finé.
J. Pratt-Walter, © 2020
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