The Girl From a Small Fishing Village
I saw her speaking but only heard music.
And wondered of the sanity of love, whatever it is that love might be.
I heard Mozart’s violin concerto number three.
I heard her speaking it to me.
The Adagio, like the rhythmic tides in a ternary form at eventide on the rocky shores of the Hudson.
Such is the splendid D major as the crickets play one octave higher with the wind playing an A major.
I hum in A sharp and the fog horn in the distance a forlorn B minor.
The wine works quickly, tempers the mood.
Too drunk to write so we sing. Too tired to dream so we think. To weary to wish so we wander.
Lest the moon forgets to show us the way, we will set up camp beneath a bench staring up at the wild Verona sky like so many years ago.
Her jet black hair has purple hues in the moonlight.
Her red lips yearning in the chill of an autumn morning. Many years ago.
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