I see her first at the symphony
elegant and slimmer
than any old woman has a right to be.
She is wrapped in bold fabrics
plucked from Peru or Ecuador
or maybe the moon.
She is crowned with a velvet pillbox
plump with pearls
gleaming silver beads dangling.
I did not know her name
so I call her Mrs. Hat.
I never meet Mrs. Hat,
but with every concert
I am treated to a new outfit
complete with a millinery surprise.
I love that our seats for the season
are so close. I can see
the gold stitches on her collar
hear the sweep of her satiny skirt as she sits,
study her latest hat.
This one blooms with red embroidery
and brass bells
(Which carefully do not interfere
with anyone’s line of vision).
Today, I saw her picture in the obits,
Sadly, not a full-length photo.
I will never forget the beauty of Beethoven’s Sixth
accompanied by Mrs. Hat’s latest outfit.
In the Heart of Death and Life
In the valley
carving the billow of the storm
are scuffling stands
of waggling trees
Young trees lull and lash
beneath the gushing gale’s
while olden trees
must creak and crash
beaten and asunder
the song of the wind