By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 5/9/08

Spring bloom has shoved the last of autumn’s leaves
From their retentive branches, and when one
Of these stunted exiles is crushed underfoot
On the patio’s flagstones, startle stimuli
Come cascading down from the vault of our
Spidery skulls. Thus, the abandoned choirs bring
Us a wondrous presentiment of our
Next night’s dream. The voice of the dwarf says, “Go
To the woods and build a fire.” Then, the
Melancholy banker gets out of bed,
And saunters listlessly through blasted trees,
The damp, dead leaves under slippered, shuffling
Feet, making whispery post-mortem
Murmurings with each impoverished step.
The banker has a pasty face, imprinted
With the metahistory of a funereal climate,
The effect of too many hours
Responding to the random numbers generator.
The banker arrives, and the dwarf tells him
To stop. But, he has brought no matches. The dwarf flies
Into a rage, breaks sticks, bashes trees, bites bark,
Stomps and kicks the moldering, black leaves,
Lofts catastrophic curses through the choirs.
This, then, is when the final music starts,
When the doddering organist, fingering
Obscure keys, is suddenly joined by the
Breath of the organ blower. The flaccid bellows
Of the lungs puff out, and activate a motley,
Mad parade of soothing inner, and angry outer voices.
We wake. We shout. We pull out all the stops.
Polyphony riots through the golden vault,
New-minted money sprouting from the trees.

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