SPARKLING EYE
Erica Tagliabue Dorf, 1918-2007
Rain falling on your birthday, Erica;
after an August drought
these gray skies float
down water lifelines, pioggia
povera e preziosa.
Your green & copper
wooden cabinet
like something out of old Ferrara
still stands guard quietly
in the dining room;
out of the city’s boom
& boffo, to this rustic hideaway.
Memory is mother of the arts.
You were a hidden matrix
deep in that beehive-vortex
(10 W. 66th) where music starts
up from the frescoed scene –
that Lincoln Center fount
of gaiety in sound, that
plummet of gravity & Balanchine;
ferrying Fellini to his grand entrance
or steering Isaac Stern
toward the stage, you were
the dancing master’s high romance –
sparkling eye of the champagne
della vita. In your wide
Gypsy glass, hide
me now, Rose – the globe’s your reign.
9.10.15
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