here at this window, its pane pressed
by dying blossoms, I find the shapes
I design my words around

attempt to snare the wisp that is idea,
a hint of what could be, if only

held fast, it becomes slow, easier
to grasp, illusion made real
by alluding words

and yet so elusive – comprehension,
words – unlike music – create suspension
in a much different way

diminish the mood without sad sparkle,
suggest the tonic with more subtle drop

this morning the world unravels in beautiful extended harmonies,
tensions unleash bittersweet reminisces,
the higher partials of regret,
the intervals of near-misses

the parallel chords that ascend almost to heaven,
but stop short at the threshold for yet another verse

all without the benefit of time to provide a straight line,
cars piled up in queue, each rear-ended,
such is thought without time

a jumble, a swirl, a violent eddy,
a vortex that massages us into complacency,
incites us to roar against the drowning, the deluge,
water that quenches our thirst from the inside out,
pressure implodes us at large

and we are nought but fodder for little fishes
that swim about, wide-eyed gazing in at the remains

here at this glass, its pane pressed
by their gaping mouths and scaly fins, I find the shapes
I design my words around

Chagall 2020