|Jan/Feb 2019 Poetry Special Feature|
Playing Mozart to My Garden
My former colleagues are at work,
all "rowing in the same direction."
I'm looking up into light washing
among the branches of a maple,
the leaves brilliant reds and golds
like small koi. Neighbors ask, How
do you grow such gorgeous flowers?
Vision... okay, not vision but water,
a nutrient rich ground and planning:
light and shade coming into play
at just the right time of day.
Have you noticed that my garden
is a triangle, knitted together
by reds, yellows, whites,
—and by the music of Haydn, Mozart
and Beethoven? Each plays in a corner,
their sonatas, concertos, string quartets
as welcomed as mists on a hot day.
To get the best work from anyone
remove stress from their lives.
Same goes for flowering plants.
Music, along with speaking gently,
has the same calming effect
as a glass of beer after a long day.
What can ease or uplift your mood
if not a Mozart clarinet concerto
or his Concerto for Oboe in C Major
after a day of lashing winds?
When my father lay in a hospital,
I fell asleep each night listening
to Mozart's PIano Sonata
in B flat Major, balm to nerves
that were like exposed wires.
Old colleagues, burned out
from overtime and night support,
ask, caustically, "What
do you do all day?" They think
my time is wasted. But anyone
who has listened to Divertimento
in D, Moonlight Sonata or Haydn's
Trumpet Concerto knows how one
happily lives a squandered life.