Poem: What Music Does


At night something whispers,
Go wild to the green maple
and by morning it's gone so far
it's redder than the reddest
fox--about to spring.

Its transformation startles,
leaps inside you,
yet you see it every fall,

know it the way you
what music does
to sadness, its deepest
listening, disturbed.

- Lorna Crozier, Small Mechanics

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