He rose. Said Mass before the sun was up.
Drank coffee. Then he took his violin
Thought what key this concerto should be in
Played a few bars. And by his second cup
he’d most of an allegro. Then he’d teach
his soloists, then practice with the choir..
One young soprano had a voice like fire.
Whatever notes he wrote for her she’d reach
and hold them steady. In the afternoon
he’d write more music then go out to dine
perhaps the opera. Did not drink wine.
It slowed him down. He’d need to sleep quite soon.
Each day out of his mind the music poured-
strings voices rippled chattered clamoured soared