Yet another bit of blank verse for those keeping score.
We Wait With Her
In her hunch at the piano, we see
The weight of her existence. Fingers drape
The keys lightly, no pressure, no song.
We cannot see her face, and yet we know
The tear-veneered eyes, terse lips, and pale
Cheeks. From the slope of her shoulders, we guess
The invisible days gone by are stacked
To the brink of her atmosphere and pray
Soon they will topple, hurtle sun-ward,
Catch-fire and vanish in coronal flares.
We cannot plumb her thoughts, and yet we know
She’s ready—poised to start gently with a mere
Pulse of fingertips, then crescendo—slow,
Unveiling layers of ferocity
With every measure, deliberate rise
Upon rise. For now, no pressure, no song.
In the depths of her breaths, we learn
The pull of her descent into sorrow;
We wait with her, our own tears gathering.