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Dear Sir, he wrote at dawn,
I am requesting your kind attention
to a perplexity, which is this:
that I believe I may be hearing
what otherwise cannot be heard,
and I am finding it necessary to become
a vessel for pouring this sound into the atmosphere,
if only I may have your assistance in the matter.
I pray you, accept this request
with all seriousness and haste.
Yours most truly,
and, with great care, he signed
Today I trudged down the muddy lanes
that snake alongside the sluggish canal
or suddenly veer away, to writhe
among the narrow houses and shops
elbowing one another against the dingy
He paused. On his pen, a bubble of ink trembled.
You see I am avoiding
what I need to say.
Despite undue haste, I remain
The bubble fell, and blotted.
For three days now I have been writing letters
to you. I trust you know that they are always
the same letters, though my words are different.
I am practicing my scales, and my hands are dirty,
and the piano keys stick in the humid air.
Nonetheless, I am
Here a fingerprint appeared.
Last evening, I walked, again,
along the canal and I felt
the crackle of my letter to you
as it lay inside my hat, I felt
the snag of the letter’s fold against
my hair, which, I admit,
is neither clean nor combed.
It was necessary to mail the missive.
The question was:
where were you most likely to receive it?
I chose to drop the paper into a farrier’s mossy well,
and perhaps you now hold it
in your dry, your supple hand.
Reveal to me a sign.
My landlady is importunate.
I am your humble
Here a small hole appeared.
In truth I am becoming weary of this chore.
I distrust myself.
Last night, while I was at the piano,
my landlady pounded the butt end of a rusty musket
against my chamber door.
To all appearances, she hates my sonata.
Perhaps you, with your finer ear,
will despise it also. I cannot pinpoint,
in these waning days, what, if anything,
Yours, in difficulty,
and now the handwriting became a broad scrawl
One Who Attempts Clarity.
Persistence is a reckless master.
This will not be my final missive, it will not.
Maintain your vigilance. Hunt for notes
tied to the highest twigs of trees.
I have torn the sonata into shreds
and floated them in the canal. They
are not the letter I meant to write.
I believe you understand.
A breeze blows across the piano strings
and the machine strums its private tunes.
They are not mine. Perhaps they are yours.
I do not hear my own in any gale.
Copyright 2019 Dawn Potter
Dawn Potter is a poet, musician and essayist who lives in New England.
Thank you, Jenne!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Absolutely gorgeous……a Cascade of Grace notes. J
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