Beethoven’s problem having been resolved,
I return to my own, less heroic
perhaps, but no less pressing.
Moist air muffles the woodpecker’s drumming,
sodden leaves mute my movements,
only the steady drip of rain-wet leaves.
All the good advice in the world does nothing
to change how anyone feels,
though I still keep searching for sign,
droppings that glisten like brown pearls
fresh scrapes in the damp earth
rubs gleaming in the gray like raw flame.
Music is never a matter of convention,
expectations raised and fulfilled,
but something in the blood and on the brain.
Mud makes trails easier to follow,
deep grooves of habit linking our desires,
as always our need exposes us.
Not every spot will yield the desired
result, so we end up trusting
to luck, if such a thing exists.
A cloud smudge on the pond’s dull mirror,
sere grass seething,
the edge of the marsh irresolute.