It isn't music, really
not really
not the kind that you can
dance to
or sing words to
or hum along to

but maybe tap your foot
a bit to
or rock your shoulders
a little bit to
and sway your head
a little nod or two

It's more like rustling leaves
from pianissimo
to crescendo
above the tapping
drips of rain
in puddles circling
round the dangling feet
of waterspouts

and the trilling ring
a brassy bell delivers
swinging from the strike
of an opened door  
as dampened shoes
skip shuffle and slide
inside the musty lair
of an old bookstore

all measured by
the syncopated
clapping beat
of hooves
on cobblestone
in time with
carriage wheels
and drumbeat hoods
of rocking cabriolets

He paints from sound
that whistles in the wind
and freefalls from the sky
that bounces in the streets
and whispers to his eyes
that nestles in his pallet
and mixes in his dyes

It isn't music, really
not really
not the kind that you can
dance to
or sing words to
or hum along to

but maybe tap your foot
a bit to
or rock your shoulders
a little bit to
and sway your head
a little nod or two

when you see his aria
composed by strokes
from brushes
dipped in sound