A Book A Day

I needed new glasses
to get through our times.
My lenses clouded. In the cold,
blurry, operating room

they removed my God-given,
pliant lenses and gave me
transparent crystallines.
So I can caress my swains again

to soothe my panic, quell my rage.
There are piles that show me tales,
and songs so clear and pure
that I could never spawn.

Wine in hand, I frame a page,
my new eyes strain to focus
on the forms but my mind
sways through blunders,

the broken panes where once
I saw a blooming willow
and spent an hour waiting for a cardinal.
The book whisperer entices me.

I open a page and then another.
The words and pages foil me.
Inconstant lover, I turn to another,
pray this time to find my pleasure.

I ask my father to play. He picks up
the varnished double tube of russet wood.
Keys click. He blows through a reed,

shellacked red **** with whining blast,  
and fastens it on the crook. Out come
startling sounds of amber and musk.

Funny scales, smokey tones. He plays
Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Prokofiev,
the grandfather and the sorcerer’s apprentice

made ridiculous with too many brooms.
And the world of magic comes to my eyes,
though he scoffs at magic.

And the world of prayer comes to my soul,
though he – who marched to set Dachau free– despises god,
and the truth of love enters my heart,

though I never know where his is
because he picks up his bassoon
and wanders elsewhere.