Alone in a sonnet he sings to no one,
pouring his life in a thimble
Sheet music saplings unfold in the sun,
melodies eager and nimble

Carving a song in the rock at his feet,
tempos of Saturday’s season
Lyrics he’s written but can not repeat,
sadness a part of the reason

Clouded concertos amass in the sky,
metronome thunderstorms grumble
Holding his breath as he fears he might cry,
deaf as the harmonies crumble

Tuning fork echoes that weep on the wind,
listening for what they are saying
Unrecognizable only to him,
breaking this heart he is playing