Yesterday in the park
she played Pachelbel’s Canon.
The first few notes drew me.
Her rendition was lovely and true,
too fine for pigeons and tourists pecking
for crumbs in an eighth note’s pause.
Giving silence full value, I stayed
as the moment’s metronomics dialed down.
Each descending line ushered my eyes
to focus past strings to a face.
Score morphed into skin –
Canon, into countenance.
Music rose and died,
light and darkness danced,
lame spirits wept and sang in those eyes.
The melody had been born there, I felt,
phrasing shaped, honed, now poured –
a lyric anointing in the park.
And there, in Canon,
all faces bore stigmata
of the Christ.