Thursday, June 13, 2013

Chamber Music

© Charleston Trust Photograph by Axel Hesslenberg

She thought she would wilt
when the parlor door shut.
Perched on a sticky folding chair,
she fluffed the ruffles of her sundress,
but the flicking of her funeral fan
simply sent more sultry air
to slap her face.  The men in ties
tuned up, brows glistening,
peering at the pages through
the thick humidity.  What could
the black spots mean?
She caught a breath as they caught theirs,
and with a nod, bows stroked strings,
growling, prowling, sweetly singing.
She closed her eyes and flew away
on the soaring, sudden breeze.

This door takes me back to Charleston, South Carolina.  Someday I'll return and soak up the heat of the Spoleto USA arts festival...


  1. I am pleasantly reminded of the summer afternoon concerts held outdoors each Sunday in the small town I grew up in. Sweat would drench whatever frilly frock my mother put me in ... but oh, how I loved the music. I enjoyed your poem, Teresa!

  2. You really painted the scene here...and texturized it, too!
    Well done.


  3. Loved the wording you used! Excellent imagery as well. :o)


  4. After days and days of rehearsal, the notes DO turn into nothing but spots. You look away, see them floating, reach out to grasp, missing them by miles.

    Wonderful, T.
    You never disappoint.

  5. Teresa- so lovely- it took my breath away with the last two lines.

  6. This was well orchestrated..I'm glad I stopped by.

  7. An amazing write. One of my faves from this week!