November (for Yoko Miwa)
On the ebony off-keys, your hands,
your head in a veil of black mist, tonic
to your turquoise evening gown.
Poised as a turtle dove on an eave,
you press an index finger on the ivory,
liberating a passel of scales zooming
down like falcons in a swarm,
your colony and command,
to a Japanese baseball diamond
playing field for a perfect game,
blossoming cherries shaking
their softest petals raining
onto the grass still green in drear
November sunlight, still shining
tinting the mist and the grass.