In Memory of Rosie DeJong
Sometimes in my dreams
music is pouring down on me like rain.
I can hear thunder,
but it is soft, and very far away.
Somewhere in a small house,
George is playing on the black keys,
never touching the white ones.
His fingers are floating over them
like a memory unfolding itself.
If you were to ask me
the sound of that music, I would tell you
it is a sound like no other. It is
the scent of orchids blooming
in the restless night. It is your sound, Rosie.
Peace.