#51
For Renee Fleming
Some singers are made of music,
As though there exists a music gene.
For some, even great artists, it's a trick,
The benefit of exquisite training.
You feel the absence of a votive force.
The notes, even the shaping of line,
Are pleasing, like a poem's off-rhyme,
But talent, not music, is their source.
Some singers make of breath a force
That governs the fluidity of time.
The best understand that beauty is fleeting,
That this song, now, is their only chance,
That perfection knows no repeating,
And thrust at our hearts like a lance.
