by Ann B. Day
The trio plays
in the farmhouse parlor
while outside October’s rain
brings visions of other times.
Strings slide down
silver window panes
and gold of poplars
shimmer in the lane.
Flute notes drop
on yellow leaves,
of twigs and trunks
of autumn trees.
Piano keys play
a beating bass
across the pond,
ripples interlace.
As music and rain
bring memories of you,
the trio plays on,
impromptu.
Smoky Quartz 