At The Piano

time ticks in your hands with a sad translucence
you don't understand because
the metronome is weighted

the carpet the color of roses
and the piano still standing.
the trees outside

are with you too,
practicing in the wind;
the blowing pines

the pine winds beckoning.
this is music too and you rise
to see the sunset snowy

beyond the picture window glass.
all this will pass.
even the metronome

will vanish.

mary angela douglas 4 january 2016