Easel and Palette in E Minor

When you dance like a stroke of breath
Chiseled from a non-spatial palette, cerulean
Thunderstorms unshackle my mind
From the where and the when and the why.

What voice your pianissimo speaks I cannot fathom,
Unless tones are expressed as colors waltzing,
And I hear you—prancing past a body of water—
As rain filters lightning through easel-born pines. 

Merely a shadow of an echo of
something glimpsed in a mirror when
the mist breaks up and the rainbow settles.  

Spring-soaked cedar in cinder-hues breathes burnt umber:
You turn to face an ocean of rusted memory,
And a sunburst penumbra turns with you,
Like a ghost of a tree in a traceless mirror.

But you are neither startled nor afraid.  Merely aware
That Stewards may be watching—like Passover wine-servers—
A choral azure that boasts no soul-flight
When the palette knife glissandos across your canvas.

Merely a shadow of an echo of
something glimpsed in a mirror when
the mist breaks up and the rainbow settles.  

The storm that toppled into existence out of no clouds
Sings like an echo of a viola on windowless seas. 
I was hoping you could explain these strings to me, 
Threads of blood drenched on doorposts where sacrifice ceases.

Who are these people?  Are they hiding from the angel?
Are they words set to music, Lamb's grapes on scarlet-woven surf?
Did you know that those faithful fortissimo tides
Would dash the promethean sands out to sea? Break lightspeed?

                           Copyright 2012 Robert E. Romanelli