I remember my father listening to Brahms in the living room, Eyes closed, Fingers tapping notes on his knees, That ratty recliner a front row seat; An island in an ocean of music and a soul Carried by the ethereal harmony of a Symphony felt in the bones.
Even when he could no longer raise his arms And his legs like stones Rested still at the end of the bed; When the poison of cancer destroyed all the strength he had, I watched him still find something sweet In the music.
They played it on some old radio And his eyes would close as if Those symphonies of hope Could sustain his heart beat Just a little while Longer.
I am his daughter, and I know this Because I also listen for it.
In the gentle whispering of the Cottonwood leaves Or the light strain of the Meadowlark on a summer evening,
There are also strings;
The faint echo of a violin.
It rolls in like a river from a valley far away and plays the notes of hope.
I can hear the opening sonata quote something like,
Don’t give in
To the darkness.
A symphony plays in the winds that cascade across the jagged rocks of the mountains.
A symphony plays in the sky.
A symphony rolls in on the waves of the northern seas,
Across the reddened canyons;
The notes they bleed like rain upon the Parched and desiccated world.
And sometimes, it plays in your heart. You orchestrate the notes with your hands when you run them through my hair, And suddenly, from somewhere far away, I can hear the whispered strings of my own violin,
Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings the tune without the words And never stops at all -Emily Dickinson