Sonnet for Dave Brubeck

Quiet as the moon your fingers whisper
With the cries of men who dream the sky;
The smiles of your fingers glister
With the father’s eloquent reply.
While the evening’s solemn stillness floats high,
Flute as soft as windbreath, new as morning,
Dances over desert sands and faint, dry,
Tempted souls, the nighttime of their mourning
Bringing rest to forty days’ enduring.
Quiet as the moonlight in its vigil,
Hope gathers with its wings, the dawn now yawning.
Light inside the wilderness, though yet still,
Whispers over bass notes and weak fingers;
All the while, the moon’s calm vigil lingers…

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