--composer Charles E. Ives, vacations
             at Elk Lake, N.Y., 1911--

I prop my papers up with my knees,
     notes for a new sonata,
when I should enjoy myself, watch
     bathers over by the shore,
should relax, like the families
     picnicking nearby, their laughter
counterpoint to my work.
     My father taught me the value
of odd, unusual sounds everywhere,
     even at the lake, and how
they become music. A hymn to the earth.
     Only it comes out in a strange
key, tinkered-with, not right.
     But, somehow it is.
Suddenly I'm blessed with the shade
     of Harmony's parasol,
sweet wife, her voice as she reads
     a poem she's just composed.

The shouts of children playing by the lake
     get caught in her voice, my notes,
and those old gospel hymns I sang
     at revival meetings, the worshippers,
all of us let-out souls, swaying
     together, in song, our prayers
coming in great waves across the scales,
     the music bigger than us,
some in tune, others gloriously not so,
     while my father, the band leader,
conducts us with his clarinet.
     He always loved our dissonance.
Our beautiful misplaced notes penetrating
     heavenward, to the low-anchored
clouds, the infinite.

Why can't it always be so easy? Hearing
     a sound I've heard before, say
the evening train to Hartford,
     its whistle vibrating across the valley,
or on Sunday, the church bells
     imparting a melody onto the land.
Why can't I play this on our old parlor piano?
     The woods bathed in a wondrous light.
I want to breathe my own symphonies,
     and not just scribble down these passages
as Harmony drowses beside me.
     While in my head Beethoven's chords,
fate knocking, bangs on the keyboard
     with scraps of songs
I weave into each movement.

Such grace I find here with Harmony,
     dusk settling on the water,
the banks, elm trees. Both of us
     enraptured at how easily
we lose ourselves in each other,
     in these sounds. A joy
in our marriage, the noisy songs
     I compose, their chaos father'd love.
Harmony wakes, shooing away a bee.
     I suppose we should go
and dress for dinner, but why leave
     this exuberant world by the lake,
its spirited fanfare made of tunes
     that come to us in flashes, light
through the trees gathering every
     strange note, while through my fingers
a commonplace music steals in.