The Pines Outside Sibelius’ Window

 

It was Basho I think who said a pine 

is another thing that doesn’t love us–

he was right surely–cold hearts

of trees are black as life or dying,

 

there’s no help for it. Friend I’m happy

to know; cleaned of impulse; freed 

from rolling dice or plucked petals 

of angels love me or love me not. 

 

Even late spring light off the lake

is immune to Bach, the hill 

where young Jan played 

just as rain was coming on, 

 

a violin for barometer; and later, 

on his honeymoon he brought

laboring men to haul his baby grand

deep into Kaelian woods–

 

all true, and I think he played naked

upright, smoking a cigar, Liszt 

for Aino, that sugary bride,

candles arranged like tiny gods 

 

but still a ruse. He knew 

like all aging, unbelieving men

trees do not hear, they are daughters

of ice, no wickedness or heart

 

or shore or whisper.