Touchstone

When the music played
summer was a veil
upon the streets.
He opened the doors
to let the notes
slide across the lawn.
Staffs brushing the grasses,
furrowing the dry earth,
until they reached the walk
and began pulling at the people.
And the people came into the house,
with hats and without,
smiling and laughing.
 
The note hangs suspended.
Visualize a droplet
with a fluted tail,
sailing,
ready to burst upon the ear.
Reverse the tape and listen.
The silence before birth
is all at once.
 
When winter came
and the world went white
he took the projector
onto the icy lawn,
a black extension cord
winding up and back
and through the lighted window.
Against the walls of snow
he ran a film of summer:
leaves and dogs
and the freshly cut grass
and the people filling the house
with music.

Appeared in Berkeley Poets Cooperative #14, 1978