Wind drives leaves across the road.
Mozart’s Requiem remains in my mind’s ear.
It remains in my ear’s mind and has become a tree of human voices.
The wind drives the leaves across the road, ahead, in my car’s beam.
I hear the tree of voices die.
I hear it fall away voice by voice in the wind.
The tree is bare but for the boom of one last leaf-voice.
Then that too joins the wind as I open the door of the laundry room.
This is one of a few poems J.R. sent not in the collection that is Beautiful Day.
A review of Beautiful Day that appeared in The Lake.
Another poem delighted in on Wherewithall.