Howard Grady Brown
A friend of mine designed a listening room,
A place where foliage and music bloom,
In concert: Wandering Jew and succulent,
Mozart, Martinů, and spider plant.
He offers tea; I thank him and accept.
Before he turns to where the kettle’s kept,
He lowers stylus into groove to play
A string quartet recalled from yesterday.
I think the world was quiet, then, more still
The time that one endured, the night more still.
Now, even potted palms might rejoice
To hear the counterpoint, the lambent chords,
As infinitely baffled speakers voice
A heart-to-heart that leaves me wanting words.