18 March 2002 - 6:04 p.m.
The word that my finger found in my dictionary was oriole.
As she hunches over the piano, I peel oranges.
The day is wilting around us like a tired balloon.
I handle each section of fruit like a sugar-spun egg,
each shining on its bed of dark green leaves.
Watching her frowning over the new chords,
it would never strike you that her name comes from aurum,
a Latin word for gold. As she silently presses
her way through the thickets of flats,
you would never guess at the glorious trills
that burst through her mouth when the night is full.
As I stir the thickening broth, a melody flutters across
the trembling frame of the twilight.
Soon it will be time for a simple feast, and
the fragrance of the music is growing stronger.
One year ago, Poetry Daily featured a villanelle by J. Allyn Rosser titled Sugar Dada, which ends with this:
Nothingness is not as true as this
Faith we grind up with denial: grist
To the midnight mill; morning's catalyst.
Come, let's go home, wherever you think it is.
Nothing is true, my dear. Not even this.
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