Can music be specific to any one particular season? Perhaps and perhaps not. Yet Vivaldi seemed to think so, and Handel's Harpsichord Suite No.2 in F major seemed to me to appropriately represent Winter's fragile finery.
In a rush of harpsichord joy
Are scales of flowing snowflakes,
Trills of brave morning birdsong.
Brief rests between movements
Are the pauses between puffs of white breath;
Chords the crunch of footfall.
Staccato notes are surely
Bare tree-tips reaching thin point
Perplexed in persistent effort
To pierce the low-hanging sky.
Stark brittle beauty
The cold stream singing notes
Of fumbling round ice and rough white-patched rocks.
Thin of ice and harpsichord sounds,
Gracing sweep of covered land:
Enamor
open eyes and ears.
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