Is it music you want?
I will dispatch a dozen notes;
They will arrive by bird, by horseback, by morning.
Arrange them on the mantel in a dozen fluted vases;
Admire them from a distance;
Moan when the sunlight embraces each golden bloom;
Sigh with the breeze through the open window;
Cry out with each falling petal.
On your knees weep for the beauty
That has been lost by insolence, by neglect.
Then rise, and putting the strands of your hair in order,
Wiping your eyes,
Go to the piano listing in one corner
And lightly drop one finger on an ivory key,
Then listen in the deepening silence
For the rose and lavender echoes
That rise like smoke from an autumn fire,
That fall like autumn leaves from the sycamores,
That arrange themselves like lacework about your feet.
It was music you wanted…
I send a symphony.
(Prague — August 9, 2001)