waiting for Mozart

On the outskirts of Vienna,
when winter comes, dull and frozen,
even secrets seek the sun.
Words held in doorless chambers
gather urgency and slip somehow
into my throat, wait to ride
a warm whisper into the frigid air.
Silence forgets its place, joins
the unrest and wonders how it stood
so long, tongue held, hands folded.
Into the weakened light a clamor
is released, a gust of minor revelation
that stirs no page, nor lifts the sheerest curtain.

I confess only to the sunset, offer declaration
to the silhouettes of bare sycamores.
Yes, I am still here, draped in wide ribbons
of remembrance, swathed in crepe,
blacker than December’s midnight,
a shadow beneath a petticoat,
frayed hem iced and muddied.
Here, near the river’s rimy edge, I stand
and think of monarchs and willows,
moonlight impearled, the water thawed
and bright with fishes.

I have never stopped, not for one breath,
gathering branches with tight fists
of buds, never let go the hope of forced
blooms set in jar by the western window
and arched toward winter’s weak sun.
I am quiet and cold with twilight
close on my heels. Tonight sleep will bury me
in a snowfall of pale petals. I will wait
one more day.