May 10, 2020

Canning Season

I'm in the market for a gramophone,
the old wind-up kind. Music in real time
is far superior, of course, but time is
short. And canned music, like canned
peaches, is better than no music at all.

Real time is marking itself, marching,
staging a comeback, scrawling its
signature on the wall. Can any still read?
Who will decipher the code? Who
will learn its notation, play its music?

When we've exhausted our stores,
run through our reserves, will we know
how to play in real time? Will we know
how to dance in the orchard? Who
will whittle a fife and whistle a tune?

There is much to learn, if we are to live –
to eat and dance and sing and play –
under the Sun, gathering its fruits and
making a music that mimics its waves,
its cycles, its rhythms, its seasons.

We need help, and gramophones. Time is
short. We must turn the crank, turn tables,
learn the songs to preserve ourselves,
hymns of praise and thanks for life under
the Sun, for music in real time – and beyond.