Grief Leaving Poem by Edith Scott Johnson

A trickle of music
down the hall from my flat
floats slender fragments of sound--
Harmonis leaves glide down
out of cool, autumnal Brahms;

silver whispers touch my cheek
and I shiver; they are notes,
small and tender, tiny pulses
along my senses--
blue and burgundy percussions
against cloudy remembrances--

next sunlight I look down
into a backyard swimming pool
deserted by ballons of summer laughter;
I glance up to see green fields hazed by heat
give way to wheat now;

Dark red leaves
lie still on the pool's bottom,
sliding, fading, almost forgotten.