Voice of the saxophone breathes bass touch as percussion dusts the surface
of the drum half audible then striking the reliable pulse with sharp keyboard
intention drawing melody close to perfect pitch, clear eyelit decibels once
stubborn holding the room to splashes of a recollected sepia gone tonal brown
then washed glissando of the sweeping hand toward a single note smooth
paced into constancy. The mood, wood of the reed, the brevity of late night
confection mourns the seed of accidental flowering that comes as rests between
the thought of hands, the thought of play, the chore of making within bounds
that finally relaxes when a circumstance a color creams true like soft tomato
soup when you are ill and want only quiet comfort. Now light fog
of the instrument replays a situation with tiny failure magnified beyond
the simple notes tasted almost as white excuses for not interrupting
coastlines with imaginary say-so few remember. Only the notes within the lines
continue justice as you would inform the range of choice. Leaving out
the impulse to confine each music to the drawn familiar lifeline thought
to be the whole taught interval eclipsing birth and death the short time
innocence might be replayed and pored over like wealth nudged into
conformity resisting purer love than one has known and finds again
within the cushion of white keys and black allowed to blend the texture
of immersion and some unexpected thing that interrupts what was
imagined with some between mood and darker brass tones whispered.
.
Sheila E. Murphy
.