d-minor

The key of d-minor.

d-minor is a deep, rich key. It's the seed that falls on fertile grounds, watered by the spring rains, the tree planted by streams of flowing water. It's the dark green summer foliage of the old oak, thick enough to block out the sun on a hot day.

It's the smell of the forest between campus and the apartments, that intoxicating smell of chlorophyll and pollen. It's the muggy evening meeting the cool breeze. It's the sweater clinging to the arms, still tingling from the performance.

It's the dangerous brew of hot air meeting cold, rotating, swirling, electrifying the sky. It's the stiff wind that blows over your puny little lawn chairs. Your lawn chairs are D-Major. Look how pitiful they are, getting blown over by the changes in air pressure. d-minor laughs at them.

It's the sound of Bach over the cacophony of preachers. Their sermons come and go. Bach will be here much longer than we will. Those who listen will breathe in a master's work on a crummy violin, and breathe out ironic poetry. Is there a point? Perhaps it will serve as an interesting sermon illustration to a handful of mindful pastors, rejuvenated by fresh lectures and time away from home. Their parishioners will be mildly amused by it before returning to their Sunday morning labors of theological construction and mindlessly waiting for lunch.

d-minor is really a lovely key, and the violin seems to love it especially so. I will bring it out again in the morning, and see if there is something left to be said, or if the preachers will forget again to listen. Some will listen, surely, and perhaps be inspired to further poetry.

--to the gentleman in the front row.