for Bill Evans
Six chords, then silence, then the world
Was made. Just like my heart in its feeble
Birdcage. It was autumn. I listened with
Eyes closed. Light strobing among leaves,
The phonograph crackling and popping
As if your Trio with Symphony Orchestra
Was burning, Bill, right in the fireplace.
Stone angel, little deep-thinking statuette—
I was the dragonfly lighted in your hair,
I was the moss around your demure ankle.
A huddle of grass shivering as if afraid.
Tell me, Bill: How did you do all of that?
How’d you make the yellow leaves fall,
nbsp; The pond, in slow motion, ripple inward?