The composer has come to the apocalyptic chamber.
Sunlight scratches in dark shadows cast by trees.
They have been burnt. They have not come to leaf.
These are the strings that must be played.
In the limbs, where a bird has landed or a ghost
the melody of the lost.
The secret is what can be subtracted.
The clouds part, and the sun’s rays fall upon
the ashes. He raises his bow
and puts his ear to the light
the stems of the coming blossoms.
Sheila Packa is a poet with Minnesotan and Finnish roots. Her work has been widely published in books, anthologies, and journals.
The Ekphrastic Review
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