Composing For Beethoven

Today, we remember your birth, Ludwig,  

in the concert hall where ghosts gather.  

December cold nipping at our ears,  

we hum Ode to Joy in warm breath.  

If only you could hear us now,  

what would you think of earbuds,  

of phones ringing with Fur Elise  

in the pockets of strangers passing?  

Would you laugh at our devotion,  

our stubborn need to celebrate  

with cakes topped in candles  

and renditions strummed on guitars?  

Perhaps you'd find humor in it,  

a world spinning with your notes,  

your symphonies in shopping aisles  

between canned peas and detergent.  

On this stage, we sit silently,  

imagining the swell of your concert,  

the structure of your movements,  

each note breaking the stillness.  

We lift our voices together  

in gratitude for your presence,  

for the echoes of your past scrawl  

on the silent, eager air today.