Frost makes patterns on the window panes
as his warm breath rises into the cold room.
Seated at his piano, the labour of his fingers on the keys,
ice trickles down the glass, like a tear drop.

Outside, voices rise into the October air,
their breath forming small clouds
of daily concerns, admonishments,
hurried footsteps, carriages passing by the window.

He rises to light the fire, sips at hot coffee,
warmth seeping within, quill scratches at paper,
creative fire rising, the ice withdraws, flows
into a series of memories, expressed by warm fingertips.

Tentatively, slowly, an inner world is revealed,
of a musician whose ears are frozen to chattering voices,
but who strikes fire into the hearts of those
who listen, and are swept away by the flood of passion.

Memories rise and fall with the notes in his silent room;
faces of those loved and lost, and longings to hear again,
the sound of the wind carrying the song of birds, shepherd's flutes,
and the timbre of sweet conversation.

With a soft sigh, he falls into her smile and rippling laughter;
the rising music pours out a torrent of youthful hope, then anguished  despair, descending  into quavering acceptance,
as browned leaves drift against the window.