Fugue

There was no warning
That steps
Might be made
Into music,
No inkling that
A journey
Could become a song,
Only a vague
thought,
ancient remembrance,
that when words
Fall into pits
of time
and stay
lodged deeply,
there could be
a presence
of poetry
which you,
noble soul
With nimble fingers,
could weave
Into notes
and music
Of a song,
A syncopation
of single steps
played long :
Myth and stories
Are made for children
while the older
Know
what things
appear to be,
And what they may be,
May not indeed be.
We feel in our perception
A base heaviness
Of step.
And older men
Measured In chains
and leagues,
are often turned
to pigs that bleed,
To tell a story
In a dream of
anything but clear
cut black and white,
In an elusive song
Of love
brought about from
word.
And there are
certain thoughtful
women
who take a man’s
story,
And can simply
make it music,
Through secret
And softly
whispered
salutations
To the midnight
stars.