Broken silhouette,
then branches,
then leaves,
as you approach…
A tree
like the sound of an oboe
in the mist.
It is only the inexplicable
that I live for.
I no longer belong to myself.
The choices that make me,
The breaths I take.
Summer in the Dolomites.
Mahler in a rowing boat
on a lake:
the first stroke of the oars
-after months of frustration-
releases a theme
the Seventh Symphony’s
first movement
across the water
into the mountains…
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