Friday, June 17, 2011

empathy in A minor

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.