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How we met; one facet of Clara Rockmore

I met Clara Rockmore by playing intuition
much like she phrased her theremin:
vibrations wedded in the air.
High priestess of her instrument,
"It's not for schpooky music",
she brooked no contact with a world
old age and distrust shut her from..
When I learned that Clara
was yet alive, though waning,
a dozen roses teleported
to her New York City home
"from an admirer in Miami."
Her interest piqued, she tried to call
she could not phone; had not my name.
The florist called instead and said
"she insists to speak to you."
I looked up Clara, always listed;
telephoned her then, and heard
her voice in  music, with myself;
myself as her muse.
"Oh! You're the one who sent the roses?
They're so lovely! Lasting well.
How did you know red is my color?
Red roses are my favorite flowers."
I spoke in truth, confessed
"I guessed".
(without pause)
"When Professor Theremin courted me
he sent red roses every week.
That was
many years ago.
Now you send me roses, so
I must ask,--I need to know
What do you want from me?"
"Nothing, Mrs. Rockmore;
nothing but to say
your music makes my mornings
last the entire day.
I listen to your album
put down years ago.
I think you are immortal
but none of us are so—
—so blessed to have your soul
and the taste you evidence.
So I sent some roses as
reminders of the lives you touch."
And nearly every-after month
I'd send a fresh red dozen
but Clara couldn't love
in May of 1998.

10 May 06

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