How painful to be Wolfgang’s child
Musical Notes in blood
But never remembered as genius
Artisians select our preferred pain.
Penning out privatepoet biographies
some searching for just one chord
Painters Hunched over portfolios
Eyes seared by mineral.
Spirits. And oils
Fingers dyed like Easter eggs
in charcoals and azures
Some found. Some lost.
Compositions drifted over by dust
Maria wrote me
She once found an oval hollow
Of gray and white feathers
On a clump of spring’s greening grass
A red stained glass
So it must be
The dove falls
The peregrine soars