These craggy Alps, thoughtless crowns above
The winter fires in fevered homes below,
Stand lifeless, senseless, wordless in the snow,
And yet are praised by artist’s brush and loved
As beings filled with ancient wisdom’s store,
And so we sadly gaze and ask for more.
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“I’m gonna burn the house down Tuesday night.”
“OK, sweetie.” Her eyes are still drama-glued
On girly boys, Korean stagesters with
Their perfect teeth and sleeky hair all swept
Back, Reaganesque and Brylcreemed shiny best,
Trying to impress their little skinny loves.
“Maybe I’ll do it Monday – better yet.”
“That sounds pretty good to me, you bet.”
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The maestro’s music dances on the page,
His white haired glory blinds my weeping eyes.
Each gesture calls for thunderous applause.
Each wanded wave extends across the stage.
Broad majestic strokes join age to age.
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Field of Vision 