GLASS DOORKNOB
You with moist hands
And heavy eyes,
Reaching up for the glass knob
Of a mirrored door.
I was afraid it would break
In your small hand. My
Hinged knees,
Unsteady voice, hoarseness,
Heartbeat: struggling,
Hammering even.
Lateness of wisdom.
But you were inside,
Where no one else would—
Your own Road Not Taken.
Wherein you looked upon
A canvas bare,
And chose just right
The colors there
From a given poor, but rich
Palette of oils, grease pencils,
Watercolor, chalk.
Pastels.
Plaster of Paris,
Metallic collage,
Treasure chest
Of emerald, ruby,
And diamond:
The hardest.
Forward and away.
Little lark.
I whispered your name,
But quiet, you had walked
Beyond the threshold,
Past
Your fine reflection—
Sorrow of the world, empathy.
I choked, and,
You were already there.
THE ROLE OF TREES
Outside my window
Someone is practicing
On frozen ground
Where roots of
Trees reluctantly offer
Their thirst. Gnarled,
Knuckles and joints
To spiked soles
And bitter air.
Bare branches feel
The sharp, violent
Thud of boot
Against leather, intense,
Regular, rhythmic kicks
Grey, ghostly figure
Tenaciously pacing, pausing,
Tripping over roots
And trying again.
Stifling hot room
Strings absorbing sweat
Litany of scales,
Passages of time.
Finely carved wood,
Curly maple, spruce,
Stolen from forests:
Lonely, forgotten trees
Sacrificing their flesh
To transform winter
Back to summer,
While their cousins
Suffer the cold.
Aging knuckles,
Calloused fingers.
Determined to redeem,
Repeating, hesitation,
Longing.
White porcelain face
With bold, black,
Roman numerals.
Perfectly round silver
Casement,
Burnished
From cracked, calloused
Hands that loved jeweled objects
More than blonde
Curls.
At eleven
Little girls
Ride horses,
Run free in fields
Of golden grasses and
Fine herbs.
At seven they
Sprint on awkward tired legs.
Surf breaking,
Rainbows.
Revel in bright light
Azure skies.
Now beneath dusty glass,
Hands,
Ionic pillars
Frozen, silent.
Reach for twelve and ten.
Holding up, forever
In pain
Worshipping.
When
My brother fell from a carousel,
My mother finally wept,
And I climbed a purple hill
Above the mist.
Martin Agee’s career as a professional violinist has brought him to the major concert venues, recording studios, and theatres of New York City for over thirty-five years. He performs with the Mostly Mozart Festival Orchestra at Lincoln Center, American Composers Orchestra, and the American Symphony Orchestra, among many others. During his years as a professional musician, Martin Agee has remained active as a writer of poetry, fiction and critical essays. His work has recently been published in the U.K. by Belle Ombre, www.belleombre.org. Website: www.martinagee.com