To Max Richter and Vivaldi

The sun was in her blood

A particular warmth creating a calm

Born of the seasons.

 

The year of her death temperatures

Soared. It was March. Still, sunny,

At three pm she turned from the light.

 

My chorister walked me home.

Then days of Richter, for which

I say, thank-you Max.

 

I took to gardening words

To reading another Max

To remembrance

 

Decomposed, this music

Becomes time, planting

Memory in sound

 

Companions wintering

Where the north sun

Dallies in the nest.

 

Her blood froze in the cold

Grey days seeped from her.

Now I live all seasons.

 

 

 

Copyrighted by the author

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