This, is what it means to live

The room is dark, but for the lights on the faces of the players,

on their hands as their fingers move
over the keys of the accordion,
the clarinet
the strings of the violin
the skin of the drum.

Their eyes are closed

as the notes lift, into
a tumble a line a swirl,

as the notes make stories,
vivid things I see with my own eyes shut.


I sit
hands folded in my lap
and see

a figure on a dock looking over wild water
the water slate-blue and wind-whipped
no boats or ships in sight

the music changes
and I see

a man struggling up a hill alone
through white-swirled snow that makes
his old cloak flap
he is a cloud, walking

the music changes
and I see

three girls spinning
skirts fanning out in circles
bright red, yellow, stripes of blue

the sight becomes sound becomes the music becomes one

And now my body moves
not consciously
not intentionally
not the toe-tapping, foot-stomping, body-shaking groove of me
rising to dance or doing a jig in my chair
but the here-and-not-here of me,

soul moving.

I've been taken
it seems
in this space,
through and to a dream;

my body follows the spirit it
hears
and I am not here
but floating.

I am in the note
the song

the beat
the drum.

I am in the mist outside
in the sea just below the hill
in the wet sky as it leans
down to kiss the grass.


This.

I see,
suddenly

know,
vividly and feel,

to the deep to the light to the bone,

this, this,
this!

Is what
it means (it must),
to live.