Poem 25 - From Bowling Green

[me]

From Bowling Green - Al Young

The prompt sadness of Schumann or Tchaikovsky 
is the wistfulness of Basho or Bukowski
in a furnished apartment that happens 

to hold me now in January-glacial splendor. 

As love condenses into ice and snow 
forms the steam that bleeds from molten lava, 

so music and its poetry will ooze 

with sweet symphonic arias and blues. 

Getting used to appearing in a poem or a song 

means becoming comfortable with life. The long 
way around usually ends up being the shortcut.