A Bit of Moist Music

A Bit of Moist Music

Her face is wet, from rain or tears.

Warped—ruined; stuck pages and soggy binding,

Blurred ledger lines and smeared ink,

Pasted with watery pulp from rain

Oozing from black clouds above.

Heading to frantic waving arms

And notes slightly under pitch,

A thunderclap later—

A phalanx of pummeling raindrops

and cloth shoes sunk into muddy rivulets.

No matter.

No musician could read the oblong half notes

or rests the shape of smudged brushstrokes.

She breathes deeply and wipes her face.

Rain might destroy paper and ink,

It may quench fire and drown flowers.

But her voice carries the tune

past the swollen clouds, and higher than birds can fly.