The Choir

The composer cries across the years,
“I lived! I lived! I wrote these marks upon the page.
Bring them to life again!”

And so we do. The organ pipes begin to sing,
The organ master’s fingers flash across the keys,
His feet dance, his body sways,
Open-mouthed, he is one with the music.

The choir begins to sway. A single intake of breath. The mouths open.
The sound starts in planted feet, expands into the chest,
Then bursts forth from the mouth.
Point and counterpoint,
Sopranos, then altos, then tenors, then basses, each in turn,
Wave after wave, rising and falling,
Washing over the upturned faces of the congregation below.

The floor catches and rebounds the bass notes,
The rafters echo the high notes,
The very windows vibrate.
We are all one with the music, spellbound.

Then, sudden deep silence.
A collective sigh.
“Well done.” The composer sighs and smiles. “Well done.”
The gift is given and received again.

 

Winter Dreaming

Deep midwinter
Beneath the stone-hard ground
Snowdrops stir.

 

April Day

Sleet coats each needle, branch, and twig,
White filigree against the evergreens behind.
The swelling lilac bud casts off its icy shroud,
The resurrection will not be denied.