Glass Armonica

Music from her twirling glass instrument seems to make the air sparkle,

With help from the snow

Swirling like golden glitter under street lamps.

Their orange glow chases away

The growing darkness so that it pools and hides in the corners

Of city streets.

Night covers the world like a thick



The old woman's numb fingers

Stroke the glass,

Pouring out her soul into the cold winter's eve.

A whisper of wind,

Perhaps a wind of whispers,

Blows through broken windows and carries the melody

Across snowy shingled rooftops.

The tramp's children run down the street

In sweaters from the thrift store.

Their laughter fades into silence like ripples on a pond.

The notes of the armonica flow smoothly, ceaselessly, a caressing river that weaves itself into the dreams of sleepers.

No one can touch

The silver crescendo.

But many will listen to the music and toss a coin

As they pass

From taverns on late night visits

To desperate shadows of people.

They will love it for a moment as they hurry briskly by.

And forget it.

The End

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