19 Chopin Waltzes

Snow falls from rafters of pink, swollen clouds;
moonlight drenches the peasants' fields.

The feathered flesh of a fish, the juice of a peach,
the silver rivers before we named them with color.

All the begetting: the weak limbs and soft bellies,
the faces elongated like the devil himself. The devil

himself! The ship that sails through dreams of Achilles.
The palace of the deaf. The murmuring in centuries' rooms,

the crying of turtle doves, the fleet-footed dancing.
On Earth as in heaven, beauty without reason.

Copyright © 2006 Emily Fragos All rights reserved
from Cimarron Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission