too many notes
Laughing at the glittering particles
suspended in morning sunlight,
she dreams of an entire day dedicated
to listening for distant church bells and
whispered promises of spring,
to searching for the yellow in everything green,
to spinning and spinning
and smiling at sweet elderly phrasings
at the grocery store.
She imagines that she is important to you,
you know; dreams of being unique in your eyes.
She knows she is nothing more significant
than a brand new quarter, pressed into a
USA-shaped display -
all pretty and painted,
but still only a piece of a collection
that will gather to it those settling particles
after the sunlight is through with them.
Her feet are light against the earth,
and she wonders if that speaks to a short life span
or merely a practiced gait;
her barefoot walks are rather silly
in the snow,
but she doesn't much care.
She and I have spoken, you know.
We've whispered too loudly in the dark,
with the neighbors wondering
what all the racket was about.
She has cried on my shoulder.
Do you take pride in that?
Do you go on about your day,
forgetting what you held last night?
You thought it just a body,
but then you think Mozart is just notes.
She sings the next stanza,
and you stand in defiance against her beauty.
I'll laugh in the corner when you find
your collection incomplete.
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written works © April Palleria, 2002