In the clearing between the rains,
it is vesper time.
The ancient clock tower strikes seven.
A dog barks in the distance,
as the kiss of the setting sun
makes the golden clouds blush.
Slowly, the cellist draws his bow.
without pomp or preening, with no affectation whatsoever,
he begins to play:
songs that are psalms, that are prayers.
Bach, in all his grief and joy
leaps and laments and dances
across the cobblestone square.
There is no finer sermon that could be found
inside any church
than this opening of the heart.
While he smiles
at those who are moved to drop a few coins
into his worn and battered case,
the music is not for them.
He plays because his soul must,
because it is his heart’s delight
and we are just the lucky eavesdroppers,
his love song