A Windsor Chair

A symphony can’t be simply sonic—
notes soaring wing-beats/heart-beats drummed into ears.
More like lit windows in dark walls, chronic
as daybreak and nightfall and widows’ tears:

a whole composed of universal fears
and resolutions. Panes of mended glass.
Those repetitions tonic. Soothing as shears
making order by breaking blades of grass.

Simplicity, too, seems wrought. Involute.
Flowing in tight-formed scrolls. Pure Ionic.
Pedestals hold idealized marble fruit
or chiseled heads (blank-eyed and iconic)
designed to be read Platonically astute
yet—unintentionally?—ironic.

Leslie Schultz

Greetings from this Land of April Snow!  These photographs were all taken from within my house within the past twenty-four hours. This morning’s poem started as I idly looked at some images of antique Windsor chairs made hundreds of years ago in Philadelphia and took the shape of this Petrarchan sonnet.

Enjoy your day, whatever the weather!  LESLIE

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