The wind begins,
blows from the east, this time,
whistling a tune, mournful, and low,
between the cracks of the cabin,
where,
Shakespeare,
puts down his quill,
fashioned out of dust, limestone,
and sewn with threads of sage and cedar,
leans back in his rocking chair,
and frowns.
He is getting old, the day after is
colder than he remembers, his bones,
strong-fragile scars, holding his frame,
listen to the wind blowing from the east,
it has been a long time, since he has heard
his friend knocking at his door, again, he calls,
should he answer, is he ready?
he is getting old, blonde has turned to gray,
turned to white, turned back to blonde again,
and tonight he found gray, in his hands,
and still the east wind blows, calling him,
should he answer?
blonde, ice, in roses blooming,
crinkle on the edges of the page
where he has been writing,
through the nights, the days,
ink rises, in sunrises filtering,
though fog from the page,
he ignores the east wind,
and listens instead to the fairies,
whispering tickles in his ear,
oh Titania, what would you have me do?
a man's desire is to love,
he mutters, wrists as strong as iron,
gripping the polished oak of the
rocking chair. In his frown,
there is a smile, a well-worthy,
earned smile, as he looks over
to the corner of the room, where a viola
rests, quiet, his fingers ache to
pick up the now familiar bow,
who knew he could become a musician?
but not yet, he has a job to finish, a problem
to resolve,
instead he admires its shape, the simple curves,
darkening into the amber liquid of the grain, forming
the hollow, a darkening shadow, over which the strings,
pulled tight, into the muscles of the neck, create lines of possibility,
catching the last of the lamplight, the wind
teases a tune, playfully, for him, calling him again,
always calling him, but he turns away,
the smile becoming a frown, listening
to the wings of the faeries, flutters, as the
page. The last page. He has yet
to write the words, but he is unsure,
a man's desire is to love,
is it also not his purpose?
he turns to the faeries,
flowing around him,
dust sparkling on his pale bearded cheeks,
we will show you the wealth of the world, come
lover, come love, we will show you the wealth of
the world
they had been generous with their Romeos,
true to their word, the ages had brought him story
after story, but each had gone on, to love
another, or another, or not at all, true, he had seen
the wealth of the world through their eyes,
through their lips, their words... promises, but
he had gotten angry, what is a man's desire?
yet this one, this one would be different,
they begged of him, they pleaded, one last
story,
what more could you want from me?
he had replied, furious, a tempest forming,
in his once calm eyes,
I am an old man now.
we will show the world, lover,
you have shown me the world,
but I am an old man now,
fool to listen, fool to believe, fool
to,
look
over again at the viola, faintly, he can see etched
on the sides, tiny snowflakes in infinite detail, on the
curve of the hollow, spiraling in, come follow,
come follow, lover, when they handed him this gift,
this promise, he knew then, it would be the last play, the last story,
but he did not know, fingers tracing the snowflakes,
delicate strength in the details,
it would be,
his.
He smiles at the thought and then frowns,
again so, quick to frown, promises,
we will show you the wealth of the world,
but you must, promise,
the east wind blows,
gathering strength,
calling louder, to him, lover, come play,
it is time, the viola beckons in the corner,
stirring, in his slumber,
Shakespeare picks up the quill,
what do we do with Mercutio?
beautiful, tragic, funny, Mercutio,
Is it not man's desire to love?
what will become of you?
Did you not love as I did,
as I have, as I will?
Will you not love again?
Oh Mercutio, he turns to the faeries,
they shake their head, he sighs,
he does not have to pick up the viola in the corner
to hear it playing again, familiar,
so familiar, like coming home,
dipping the pen in ink, snow swirling, he ends,
Droplets of rain form tiny bells hanging
from the fingertips of the branches, each
one catching the graying light of the afternoon,
forming a crown over Mr. Snow's head, where he
soaks in the hot tub, naked as the day,
beginning again, naked to Mercutio who is
getting ready to leave. Drying his face off with a towel,
Mercutio turns to Mr. Snow and asks,
"So it is to be comedy, then?"
Mr. Snow smiles, a response flirts like a young school girl,
on the corners of his mouth, but he says nothing,
what more is there to be said-
A man's desire is to love.
It is done.
Shakespeare puts down his quill.
The pages disappear in a flurry of
snow, ink and faerie dust,
his chatty companions over the years,
gone, leaving him to those precious after seconds,
their gift though remains, resting in corner of his cabin,
where
he listens to the east wind, impatient bringing the roar of the morning,
grey light caught in his eyes,
forming a hurricane of storms, shifting blues,
and blacks, but his hands are at peace, calm,
we will show you the wealth of the world...
Shakespeare gets out of his rocking chair,
and picks up the viola, bow in hand,
shaking his head, laughing,
what is a man's desire but to love?
Epilogue
the poet closes the door of the cabin quietly,
and leaves Mr. Hurricane to his melodies,
taking the pages of the story with him,
a gift from the faeries.
the poet is restless, anxious to travel.
looking to the west, where the sun moves between the silver feathers,
of his hands forming a song, he hears a rumor,
come, young lover, come follow, we will show you the world,
we will show you the wealth of the world,
come, young lover, come follow,
love,
he smiles, stretching his wings-
promises.
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