Quarter Rest with Fermata

Quarter Rest with Fermata
for Richard R. Schantz

On this day
in the Weih-nocturne glow
of this roomful 
of rhombicuboctahedrons
the real augmented by reflection

time isn’t ordinary.

Right on cue
(you always said to anticipate 
entrances in light of narrative)
there you are
by your crystal fountain, posing

unanswered questions
d’arte, d’amore
exposition, disclo(the)sure
(your Sprechstimme unequivocal
still strictly, stubbornly non-rhotic).

You extend, generously
arsis, thesis
up and down, up and down
cleaning Nadia’s windows
still, spotless 
this warm, warm winter’s night.

As sounds surround
a furtive tear 
falls—mine
surplus, not sorrow
sourced, single origin

as you bounded con brio
through the unfound door
du-bing, du-bang
into every room
every Lydian measure.

Such ravish’d sense
isn’t heritable, surely
but I’m a poster child 
for pedagogy
ear training as equipment for living.

So when the needle drops

and the trio’s tonic center shifts
the subduction of memory and moment 
is gut-seizing, pelagic
the psalter’s plainsong 
now impossibly appassionato
the original inconstant to this exuberance

and when the quartet quickens 
weaving, on the octave
a quarrel of words into wunder-bars 
of such sweet discord
the canon ingathers a lifetime 
of quires.

But here’s the rub
the music isn’t in the notes.

So when, finally
the moment arrives
too good to name
but calling me by mine
you tried to make sure I’d be there
will we recognize it for what it is
will we have the time for it

the pause

infinite, ecstatic, legato con amore
before pardon is asked
then answered.¶