Richard Bronson

An evening breeze --
candlelight shuddering,
reflected in dark mahogany --
a bronze candelabrum, red carnations.
I hold a Bordeaux in my hand,
ready to pour, its dark hue
theme for the evening,
to match the china, the candles;
giving you the 440 glass,
judged A on my keyboard --
a tone to which violins are tuned --
the C goblet for myself,
and E for our absent guest;
a minor chord, this triad,
sounding a grave note,
only I could know,
having assessed each glass.
A Chateau Du Bois ’98, and you,
knowledgea ble of wine,
nod approval as I pour,
deep red filling our glasses,
the third in our party
yet to arrive.
The china, Rougemont,
red to match the wine,
was my mother’s gift.
She would understand
the absent guest,
the light of red candles
reflected in crystal bowls,
the need for the minor chord.
I raise my glass,
toast the empty chair.

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