by Paul C. Binotto
Children’s chortlings in the play-ground
Are carried on wind-wings into my open window.
Oh, beautiful, innocent, purity of sound.
About the garden, symphonic seeds of melody and beat and chords are sown;
In wild cacophony thrown. An orchestra’s tuning,
Prelude to Boccherini, or Bach, or Mozart;
Morning preening of percussion, wind and string.
I lean forward in the box, listening long, though I’m late (let them wait) and must depart.