The May night lightens. The moon hangs in the apple tree.
Up to the low wall withered
wild tulips make a yellow essay.
The damp grass refracts the light
in stabs of red, violet and green,
with dark footprints that have come to a halt –
the blackbird seems to have discovered Mozart.
We stand translucent, struck dumb.
The seasoned stones of the wall
and the old red grand piano
are an open hand for the moment.
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