The Last of the Courtyard

Who will believe me later, when I say
we lived in a state of music? Passing birds
and mice met on the roof, and danced away.

Francis played his silver flute, and Guy
his violin; the children sang in words.
Who will believe me later, when I say

we lived on little else from day to day?
Life in the courtyard was its own reward.
Mice danced across the roof, and ran away.

Carpenter, painter, potter: poverty
is the sole good a singing man affords,
though not at last sufficient. As they say,

we lose the things for which we cannot pay;
our houses were sold out, over our heads.
Even the dancing mice must go away,

nothing remains of us but memory,
a fleeting minor air, absently heard.
Who will believe me later, when I say
the mice danced on the roof, and ran away?



--Emily Grosholz