Sonata No. 26

for Gilbert

Fare-thee-well
brave friend,
bright dreamer
with sinewy fingers
fleetly dancing,
daily scaling
your prancing tales,
vibrant as bold paint
daubed over fresh canvas
in broad strokes.

Fare-thee-well
soul friend. Your horses
have come for you
at last. The last mallet
has struck the final
string, and the air
vibrates with your last
tremulous notes,
spreading like ripples
over deep water
until the shore returns them,
fading with the second
movement.
Abwesenehit.

And somewhere in the back
someone begins to clap--or is that
the receding strike of hooves
as you gallop away
into a silence so pure
it feels like
emptiness.
You leap
into a hiding place,
quiet beyond comprehension,
into a hush profound,
deeper than deepest sleep,
into the same dreamy beyond
where some say loved ones meet,
where Love Divine is hoped
to be.

You laugh already,
mischievous friend,
barely containing
yourself,
barely holding back joy,
letting those last notes
sink deep into our souls,
letting us feel the measure
of the silent space, this solemn stillness
between movements
when people wipe their brows and check
the time and peer out
church windows--
already raising your hands
to the keys, already
teasing with a glance,
a sly grin
lifting a corner
of your mouth,
preparing to startle
us with a joyous finale,
like a Beethoven sonata,
Das Wiedersehen,
a reunion
beyond our
wildest
words, beyond
our wildest
hopes, nearly
beyond
the reach
of music.