She longs for a song to fall in love with
and finds the song of paint, the tunes in the colours,
the music she can make in shapes and arrangements,
the intense shades and the grace-notes.
Then she seeks the tones of words,
their patterns and styles, their rhythms and hues,
and the way that suddenly bells explode on the air
and paint it with sound while she sings and listens.
She finds dance and the language of fire,
the chords of the firesticks twirling at night,
the extended arias her arms trace on the dark,
and the rills and riffs of her singing feet.
At last comes the music in men, their thrilling
arpeggios, the dance of their rainbow movements:
light and shade playing across a mouth,
or an eyelid's indication of songs yet unheard.
Thank you for your comments. I read and appreciate them all, and reply here to specific points that seem to need it — or as I have the leisure. Otherwise I reciprocate by reading and commenting on your posts as much as possible.