Your picture on the wall

Beethoveniana,
your picture on the wall
stares relentlessly.
Such a tough,
austere beauty;
your eyes
fill the room
and tell me
I don’t know
a thing
about you.

While you’re away,
I’ll listen to your favorite ~
the Ninth Symphony ~
over and over.
I’ll have to hear it
at least a hundred times
before the sound
melds to music
and starts to flow.

But you’re more difficult
than Beethoven,
and one hundred days with you
would yield nothing.
You dispense your secrets
     like a miser:
your kisses ever cautious,
meting tenderness
in exact proportion
to the short distance
we’ve traveled.

You’re building this first movement
with a madness and tension
that omits nothing
and that contains all
your great Ludwig
would be proud of.