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Dale Trumbore
Dale Trumbore
A Seed Marks Time (SSAA Choral Score)
How often do we consciously notice the beauty around us?
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A Seed Marks Time
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A Seed Marks Time
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A Seed Marks Time
SSAA Chorus, String Quartet & Piano (This is the Choral rehearsal score)
Lynn Ungar’s text for A Seed Marks Time initially appears to be about nature, contemplating how seeds mark time underground and dormant grasses seek moisture. But near the end of this poem, we find ourselves reflected in this blend of hurry and waiting. After all, it’s not the birds who “move through a blur of time, / forgetting appointments, neglecting obligations” and getting so lost in their work that they forget to look up—it’s us. These last few lines remind us to reconsider how we mark time: Are we simply counting minutes until it’s time for the next task on our to-do list, or are we consciously noticing the beauty around us? The final line leaves us with a sung meditation that turns into a whisper: “Now this. Now this. Now this.”
Composer’s Notes
This piece was commissioned and premiered by Atlanta Master Chorale (Eric Nelson, Artistic Director) and is dedicated to Eric Nelson on the occasion of his 25th Anniversary with Atlanta Master Chorale, with gratitude for his contributions to the choral canon and his visionary pursuit of excellence in choral music that touches spirit. The premiere of A Seed Marks Time was guest conducted by Jonathan Easter.
-Dale Trumbore
Text
I wonder how a seed marks time,
tucked into the silent earth.
Does it scratch a tally
on the inside of its husk,
numbering the days until spring,
or does everything fade
into a passing blur without
the dance of bees and the
steady tick of sun across the sky?
And what about the dormant summer grass,
lying golden under the sun?
Is it passive through the drought,
or are unseen roots searching thirstily
for remembered moisture?
I know how the sunflower
turns its bright head,
oriented through the hours.
But what of the birds
who are waiting for its seeds
to ripen, or for whatever it is
that sets them on their migratory way?
Do they have some internal calendar
with days marked in red, or do they move
through a blur of time,
forgetting appointments, neglecting obligations,
or so lost in the work of the day
that dusk goes unnoticed,
and it is suddenly dark?
Are they lost, or are they
simply listening to the earth
as it chants, low and slow:
Now this. Now this. Now this.
—Lynn Ungar, from These Days: Poetry of the Pandemic Age. © 2020 Lynn Ungar.
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