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.