Home from a long day, I turn on Vivaldi’s Four Seasons and let my mind slip free from the shackles of routine. I drift into the music, becoming part of it, letting it steer my thoughts. It builds a world through one voice and many—instruments weaving together, tempos shifting, crescendos rising, then resting, only to surge into forte. The notes introduce characters; they speak to one another—conversations unfold, layering into a unison of races, languages, and tonalities. A picture emerges, vivid and alive. My senses sharpen; it feels real. I can touch it, then erase it, breathing it all in as I inhale the sound. Here’s where it takes me:
Ripples spread like drops on water,
outstretched, they brush against you.
A basket woven with ribbon ends,
notes leap from the page—
a single needle, a thread of sound,
dancing.
A pixie skates across a pond,
gliding where an old woman—
crooked, bent—gathers herself.
Her leather-worn face, dark brown,
holds blue eyes,
mirrors of sky and cloud,
a whispered secret.
Night falls dark,
spies linger in the shadows,
anticipation hums—
an argument unfolds,
a song locked in time.
Solo, then quartet,
“Your Honor,”
a lawyer’s case,
a defendant’s plea—
a storm brews.
Thunder cracks,
rolling hills tremble,
wheat fields sway as one.
Speed builds,
a zoom outward—
countryside, then country,
the world spins below,
a globe cradled in space.
The sun blazes,
planets orbit,
an embryo pulses within a world.
A black hole bends time,
a plane of existence warps—
a hole in one.
Green grass stretches,
white golf shoes gleam,
lemonade cools the air.
Daisy Buchanan drifts by,
money and nouveau riche,
across the bay,
a green light glows.
New York rises—
Lady Freedom lifts her torch,
Wall Street hums,
the Midwest churns,
Industrial Revolution fades to silicon.
Cupertino gleams,
a post liked,
then—turn it off.
Blackness falls,
pull the cord,
silence.
Then the music stops. I’m alone again, on the couch, listening now to Verdi and Aida.
BB Grey--musings 
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