Beethoven Rain.


Outside my window,
  a fog of raindrops settles to the street,
  matching Beethoven melodies,
  in soft reflective counterpoint.

A beating of stillness
  upon my roof - quiet mist; blowing; hushing,
  There is the timpani again,
  Now in joy, expecting,
    and cautious,
  in the minor - bowing to the distant call of
    conscience.

Monuments to these passing ages,
  this life's symphony
  cascades a tortured path
  through the riffs of lonely propriety
    and dissonant self-awakening.

Come!

See now the flowering of our discontent!
  these coloured pages unfold
  from darkest expectation
    into polyphonic ecstasy,
  and shine back that mournful eye,
    the transfigured spirit ... called dawn.

Ah, but there above the glimmering hope
  of this morning, lay a grey heath of cloud
  and water,
    pressing eternity from the leaves themselves,
    holding, for a moment, in the droning of
    condensation: all time - all place -
    for only the ears to see.