It seems between the war-torn tremelos and cymbol-clash cataclysms of my life story
I forgot to pencil in a few gracenotes
It’s the wrong key, the choir’s going to throw a fit
But let them
I must compose a line or two of thank you.
Thank you for the spring that rises when I let go
Thank you for strawberry yogurt
Flowers like open-mouthed dogs
Smiling faces and even for barefoot hallway chatter
Thank you for the ends of long-winded thank-you speeches, entering like the whisper of spring air between the taffeta twists of a bride’s gown as she bounds toward her lover against the winking night.
The trumpets have blasted their grief through opera glasses
The fingers of doubt have rolled down the piano, picked out every blow between black and white to accost the ears of an unlistening audience who always preferred Mozart anyway
Well I won’t promise you Mozart but
Thank you to the tiny mechanized gems in the sea powerhousing greenness for me to breathe
Thank you to feathered things painting the clouds between sunset and dreams
To the voice that warms my hand as we stand watching the birds and the sea and the sun
Spinning their gears in this wonderful contraption
Thank you to things I’m too human to know
And for things my words can’t measure.
Please, when the next movement sweeps in on a tidal wave
Of violins demanding dusty applause for death’s subito crackdown
The next time you hear me say sorry
Or wish you heard it
Plug in your headphones to my deepest heart
Even if I deny it
As Odysseus said trust me not
And if you can’t lead me into the sun outside this musical mortuary
Then let me, and go on
And breathe in the wind
And its rumor of spring
And the things for which I meant to say thank you.
Images in this post were taken in April 2016 by Anne Seaworthy by Linfield College in McMinnville, OR.