AT TANGLEWOOD
Gretchen Fletcher

Ozawa's mighty arms spread
a symphony across the lawn.
In waves, notes float out
from Shed light to heavy pines.
The Mahler melts and drips on me
like collected rain from maple
leaves after a passed storm,
and I lift my face to be washed.
Brass broader than the Berkshires
surrounds my blanket. I absorb it
through my pores, swallow passages
whole, inhale great gulps of notes deep
to a place where they grow and expand
like a balloon inside me that finally explodes,
and I become little pieces of light
that hang in the sky above the hills.