Strings, a small sad poem

I hooked up the computer Laurent gave me to check it out and wrote a little poem. It's not a very cheery poem because there was some depressing music on the radio, but I dedicated it to Laurent, since it was "his" computer:


Strings

The sad saw of violins, cellos, bass
lowers the temperature in the room
five degrees, ten degrees, twenty degrees.
Snow falls from the darkening ceiling,
gathers on the small shelves of our lips
and filters through our minds, erasing
hope and love and leaving
only blank white in its wake,
white that greys and darkens
until every tear is frozen
in night's icy symphony.

Mary Taitt
for Laurent
110814 1st