Remember the buzzing bees and blossoming blooms.
The springtime beckoned your song.
Your feet lighter than air and a smile with every step.
All thrived with your melody. I looked at you and saw,
with your curly locks black as night
a strong fierce fighter, with fair white skin.
And trumpets horned and the tune was changed
no longer a major waltz but a minor oratorio.
With drums pounding and saxophones shrieking
you fell into the music.
Spring, the season of hope and flowers,
only a faded image on a broken frame.
Your curly locks turned to soot, scraped off the floor,
and thrown away, as your knees tremble.
Like a rag doll you tried to move.
My feet stuck to the ground unable to help.
Then the flutes played and the pounding drums ceased.
With the climax finished you picked yourself up.
Newly blackened and silver locks begin,
dancing around your face.

Awaiting the next sonata, minuet, fugue,
to whisk you away while I stay,
frozen with the oratorio in my head.
Playing over and over again,
and the image where you were helpless,
and I am glued to the floor.