Mendelssohn at Thirty-Eight

I look back on the promise of my youth

(Felix the Fortunate) and am so tired.

A boy in auburn ringlets playing fugues

for old Goethe, a boy with liquid fire

in his hands! I glimpsed myself in glacier

wind and flood waters under the slender

Devil's Bridge. I loved the wild allegro,

the clack of trains, wind in a seaside cave.

Swiss sunlight, Monti Albani's sweet air,

Loch Lomond. I found music everywhere.

Now some mornings I am too weak to fold

back my bedsheets. There is nothing I crave

as much as silence. Not even pine trees,

the rich smell of old stones with moss upon

them, or the sight of snowy peaks would please

me. Quiet, like the moment before song

stretched out forever. Stillness, that instant

before strings quiver. This is what I want.

FLOYD SKLOOT