Measuring Beethoven
We have lost the sense of ticking clocks.
Soaked in centuries time becomes malleable,
carrying melodies touched by a harpsichord
as leaves from Nocturne
float to rubber-scarred asphalt.
Subliminally born,
inked notes fall between centuries
as grand flakes of heavy snow
that kiss the earth
and disappear.
Between movements
we whisper of things not yet born,
wander vistas long dead,
wonder what we really know.
Planets, compelled to
primordial choreography,
minuet as the
moon grips at tides.
In the crescendo of things finite,
Sonata pulses in a memory
survived by melody,
weighted by music,
swallowed by time.
Listen.
The clocks are measuring Beethoven.
We have lost the sense of ticking clocks.
Soaked in centuries time becomes malleable,
carrying melodies touched by a harpsichord
as leaves from Nocturne
float to rubber-scarred asphalt.
Subliminally born,
inked notes fall between centuries
as grand flakes of heavy snow
that kiss the earth
and disappear.
Between movements
we whisper of things not yet born,
wander vistas long dead,
wonder what we really know.
Planets, compelled to
primordial choreography,
minuet as the
moon grips at tides.
In the crescendo of things finite,
Sonata pulses in a memory
survived by melody,
weighted by music,
swallowed by time.
Listen.
The clocks are measuring Beethoven.