Ron Pretty

Four Hands

There are such moments: once in Vienna
looking out at that white winter
while behind me four hands at the keyboard,
Schubert with his magic shaping those crystals,
a filigree of ice on the window tree.
Evening was falling, the light was fading
from his eyes, his minor key coughing
blood onto the manuscript as the notes sang

and as I listened snow was drifting down
settling on cars and cobbles and on your lashes
as you came in from the threatening sky.
Darkness was in the music, winter whispered
of night but you were there aglow with health,
in from the cold to the dying falls
of Schubert’s music, that moment when
you took off your coat and came to me
holding my world together as we listened.
Snow and music filled the air.

 
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