the wind
seductive
with fierce
sway of
winter's leave
coerced the
landscape

the sun
rose over
waking trees
as their fingers
rattled with
fruits shrunken
hard and dry

bellow
an ancient pulse
beguiled ecstatic
sound that
trembled above
in a waltz to
the whine of the
clarinet

I close
my eyes
relish
the sonorous
sounds of
Her weather
and She whispers
*it is not the moon, I tell you
it is these violas,
that illuminate the ground