Poetry

Playing Handel
in my mind and head
playing you
for a month at a time
at the end of the war
hearing the rain
falling like the 1945 nails
of the Cross
on one small corner
of the universe
in sound proof studios
on the ball infields
or by the ocean sands
under a beautiful foreign sun
washed bodies of water
with you swimming out,
your notes not lost in visiting
to honor the righteous
in the concentration camps,
when you feel
like a thousand days
of long suffering,
we can always hear you.