Dainty, frosted quarters, eighths, sixteenths,
drift to the ground. Some stay clumped together—
arpeggios, chords— while others remain
distinct: staccatos, fermatas, the occasional sforzando.
They are eerily silent, free from the grip
of dynamics that once dictated their existence.
The faded melodies, drained of their rich, inky notation,
cling to each other as they collect upon the earth.
These pale shadows of notes gather within
the atmosphere; each moment a tune is released by
instrument or voice, a transparent layer of ink
dissipates from its sheet of music, leaving behind
its onyx exterior and curling in on itself
as it trembles and waits with the others.
They accumulate and begin to flit downward
just as we have become devoid of inspiration.
Though tiny and tasteless, they replenish the
desire to harmonize, to resonate; they
allow for musical paths not yet trodden
to be explored with fresh footprints.
Some of us instinctively realize the infinite
potential of the ghostly notes taking shape
during those most frigid days. We
open their mouths and stick out their tongues.