Synesthetic Vibrations

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It was as if the music
knew of my buried memory.
It was a picture torn
thirty years past
from a travel magazine,
of, maybe, a schoolyard in France–
autumn, games played,
blurred figures in motion,
reverberating laughter,
a country scene.

The music was a few notes torn
from a longer piece
of, maybe, music for piano or harp–
autumn, counterpoint,
crisscrossing tones in motion,
chords in resonance,
dusk.

I tore the picture
because it created a feeling
beyond the frame of its subject,
beyond the lines of its materials,
seeming to suggest a memory
that would one day find its music
and only now did I hear the soundtrack.

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