My earliest recurring dreamscape is formed
of music’s aroma as it moves into partitions.
Cross-talk signals spill over ice cube trays
as notes slur into a song, then into a concert
and its afterglow.
In this state there are no trolls to pay;
I wrote the riddle, built the structures:
garden steps to stone walls I fly to
and find the hidden moss I gnaw
trying to fill the rooms with music
I gathered all day.
Up a wide stairway, I hope to open
the door to the grand theater this time
where carpet dampens down all noise,
velvety-delicious canvas for music.
Oh, to enter where music breathes the same air
my mother used to sing Hava Nagila,
or to laugh in the Eastman Theater
as we inhaled the colors of the ballet.
This small auditorium is inside a home
that feels like mine, but only if there was
enough music digested during waking hours.
Its wooden stage, filmy with wax from the years,
still can turn into a bright lens, focused toward
my dropped jaw to set this elegant feast I crave,
in this chateau made of music.
—Lloyd Milburn
Lloyd Milburn teaches college writing in Upstate New York where he earned a creative writing MA. Publications include Willow Review (poetry award 2012), Permafrost, Sandy River Review, Synesthesia Literary Journal, and Claudius Speaks. He has also completed a book of poetry and is working on a second.
Copyright 2017, Lloyd Milburn