Superstitious

Generations ago there was an idea
That stars and planets and moons
Made sounds as they shifted in space
Not just squeaks and groans
But something melodious
The music of the spheres
Those old dreamers called it.

Now we in our modern wisdom
Know that this is quite untrue
Superstitious crap, in fact,
And that we cannot hear any
Music as the stars skip across
The black backdrop of the sky
Or as clouds obscure the moon.

Yes, science is quite certain,
But I have come to realize
That it is not truth which inspires
But ideas, and we all still hope
That as you turn your eyes and
Your ears to the heavens,
Someone hears your song.

Circle in a Square

The garden was a perfect square
Lined in moss-encrusted stone,
Constructed years ago, when
Such gardens were respites
From the stink of the streets.

It was a cloister, in fact,
Set in the center of a church,
Flat stones staying cool
In teeming summers,
Moss turning slick in rain.

In the center of the square
Was a circle, a pool of
Flowing water, fed by cisterns
Built by Romans, they say,
Dug out of mountains.

Around the pool were
Blossoming fruit trees,
Waxy lemons and oranges,
Whose petals pungently
Spiked the morning air.

At the bottom of the pool
Was an old coin, green
From sediment and algae,
Which still glistened in
Fingers of sunlight.

It was thrown there by
A girl, who had run through
The night from her violent home,
To leave a token there, to
Ask for a respite from madness.

She stood there, alone, on
That quiet night, draped in
Orange blossom petals,
Hoping her prayer would
Be heard in the silence.

The coin broken the still
Surface of the pool, and
Settled in the rotting leaves
At its bottom, nestled there
For many years, they say.

Although it lies there now,
Cloaked in sludge and slime,
It did carry her prayer
To waiting, listening ears,
And outstretched arms.

She escaped, they say, to
A place in the mountains,
Where the waters began,
Led by the daring hand
Of the one she loved.

Scent of Lilacs

She dismissed the scent of lilacs
As just another cliche,
For strong, sweet perfumes
Only tempted silly women,
The kind who devoured
Cheap paperbacks and cried
On the rough, greasy pages.

Lilacs also reminded her
Of wrinkled scarves around
Parchment necks of laughing
Old women, drinking pots of
Steaming, oversteeped tea,
Eating crumbly cakes at tables
Draped in faded chintz.

She brushed aside memories
Of those laughing ladies and
Cheap paperback books,
All shoved now into closets
With voices no longer familiar
And faces fuzzy like dreams
That evaporate in morning.

She had locked all of it away,
But that lilac scent persisted,
Strong, sweet, fresh,
Creeping through her cracked window,
Dancing on afternoon winds,
Throwing open the closets
Flooding the gray with light.