The Concert Never Ends

Rain drips and drops
from my eaves
to Baroque violin and guitar

Fire crackles in my stove,
its chimney smoke
blends and folds
above my roof,
trims autumn’s ragged
low-hanging mists
in Rococo designs.

My lawn is littered
with wet leaves,
summer’s golden tones,
sounded and fading away.

Berry canes
along my garden fence
now stand stripped,
skeletal and shivering,
like unemployed musicians,
whose concert season
is done.

In musty cellars
of an ancient book,
I savor the notes,
sipping sweet
oak-seasoned
wine of their bearing