Perhaps as a poet said, there really is a tale lit by the soft light of sleep. “Perhaps” grows around the house like birches. Perhaps there’s a meadow where the dead dogs frolic. I’ll never give up on perhaps. A fritillary lands on the unpainted porch, having returned just now to earth through a black sieve.
**
It rains in the apple trees
Where a crow settles
In a dome of blossoms—
I watch him
With my clear head
The way blind people do…
**
But the music. Nobility. Dignified growth of the man. No more hunched shoulders.
And Mahler, always an intruder, never welcomed, little Bohemian, as a boy, conducting the birch trees…
Planet of the Blind 