[return to Contents Page]
Sonata for Garden Tools
The dusty dark salon made a shrine room by the piano of some famous Polish protégé.
Three Hundred and One Haiku for Piano. Each one for a year since Basho’s death.
So disciplined, so ready for the sonic bitter pill, I try to find a way within the music,
still sure there has to be an inside. Through the window, sunny Saturday, a man across
the street prepares to work, sets tools in order against the side of a barn.
Shingles blown off, the roof coming unwoven to its separate ribbons.
Listening into silences between the phrases, I close my eyes, follow contours of the sound,
a chore and then a sport and then an absence. At each abrupt beginning, the man advances a new task, another set of tools is gone. Music washes, trims, and planes, drags its ladders.
A wake of tools taken and replaced. Then, the man is gone, the music locked, the fragile structure somehow standing.
flow of the waterfall
broken by stones