Beethoven

 

The rains had soaked the fallen leaves and pine needles;

Birds and squirrels sat hushed on their feeders;

It was a quiet winter morning without any wind.

 

All had stopped as Beethoven’s sonatas played

To towering trees and their decayed leaf mounds,

To evergreens and unseen wild things, and

To patches of blue and grey sky

That appeared transfixed and devout,

As the notes completed their handwritten,

Penciled score from the depths

Of the mind of a man who would lose his hearing.

 

They all bowed as if in a prayer

To restore the music of the spheres,

While I read about war-torn countries

And the killing of their poets.

 

©cmheuer, 12/2023