Thursday, July 1, 2010

Shingled Roof Serenade

By Rebecca L. Morrison

I recall, oh, we saw our first snow –
our boots spattered with molten alloy,
and my metallic breath spun to smoke.

These notes drifted from underground,

settling your feet in a pristine mound, but I’m
vindictive. I've failed us each time.

She beckons from atop a Baby
Grand. She cradled you in a sea
of blue, set your pontoon afloat,
shaped you a home on a sparkling boat.
In your eyes, she saw reflected
a sunset view.

I've laced her shoes before;
I’ll don her dress and sing once more.
My eyes were gray before your gold
spun my ear. You cradle polished
oak from the lowest summits, and plummet,
I refuse. No, I much
prefer this Technicolor view.

You wove a sonnet from
chaste, golden locks. You tapped

the needle to the record
from atop a sunset hill.
And I know this lyric, for strange splendor
has never beguiled your chords.

Your callused finger-pads stroke each fret;

your eyes widen to a Technicolor view.

Once, you breathed in my fourteen-karat ear
each day and dusk you’ve grown to fear,
but I’ll only earn bronze this year, won’t I?

It’s not a film I’ll rewind each night.

We won’t evaporate, shy of light.

It’s a wide-screen,
three-sixty view.
I’ll save it for you.

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