Two Pictures

The stage is poised,

a dim, hilly backdrop,

the strings dramatically ascending a mountain path,

one bend after another.

Sudden silence, white light

bursting onto everything,

then the visible slowly emerging,

and footsteps on a wooden floor,

just as in Bartók’s music.

The Miraculous Mandarin,

no less absurd set in Asia.

Bartók gathered country ballads

for his own inner darkness,

rage leaping against grace

before collapsing to serenity,

like a madman hiding his illness

but tossing the doctor in the sea.

Where lies the miracle?

In Two Pictures, long ago

petals surrender to the breeze,

each opening, changing,

touched by the first stroke of sunlight,

their gestures elegant but sad,

speaking the secrets of bud and wither.

At the moment silence descends,

quick steps of the peasant dance,

the partners changing, whirling,

half-lit, faceless.