Like birds, or notes on an invisible staff,
a small choir of leaves adorns the maple’s
branches. A mere glance in their direction
is enough to set their song singing
in my mind, and I recall a story
about a man who played the piano,
and his wife, who played the violin.
The two of them entertained by playing
the music they saw in any painting that
their host would present, one neither
had seen before. Now, decades later,
as this filigree of leaves and twigs sways
in the wintry sky, I finally understand.