mozart’s sons

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


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