Una Corda
The Diminuendo of Summer
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Una Corda
Over August, a hush
a sweet hovering above
the yellow field once
green and paraded;
where dry blades have
gone to sleep long ago
to seed an unborn and
different dream altogether.
Adagio, adagio...
And floating on the inlet,
layer-cakes of containers
pass by (and by)
while inside
a dark and varnished
room the abandoned
clarinet sits in its case
locked shut.
