The Innisfree Poetry Journal www.innisfreepoetry.org by Jo Hausam
Each one absorbed
Each one absorbed, proofed by the sounds he’s making. In my cushioned chair, by the open window, I listen. Percolating from my living room, a resonant plunk, plink-plink, tink. Seated on the polished bench, the tuner labors key by key, fine-tuned to the notes. Dwarfed in a scruffy grey sweater, he taps, adjusts, taps. Calloused fingers, yellowed like ivory, ready the piano for melody. I listen. My hands soft, in my lap. Rumbling from the neighboring field, a dissonant gnarr, rattle, chug. Perched on a metal saddle, the farmer plows furrow by furrow, pitched into the ground. In overalls and cap, kin to the soil, he browns in the sun. Grimed hands grip the wheel as the tractor primes the land for seed. I listen. My hands soft, clean, in my lap. Oh, to hear this bemusing fugue— the tuner, the farmer— tones juxtaposed, scored by common chords, a concert of counterpoint. In my cushioned chair, by the open window, I listen. My hands soft, clean, still, in my lap. I make no sound. My own tone not yet found. Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication |