She sees him as he walks in the park
inching his way through a corridor
of lamplight along a river
of her glittering notes –
clashing swords.
She sees him, she has the look of solitude.
She wears silence and the summer night,
her lighthearted smile,
the moon – the moon, too,
a gondola
bearing a distant memory…
She remembers when she had been
his mother coddling, pampering him,
worried then she’d been too lax,
ruffled at his being remiss, irresponsible,
his being a child of dreams, floating
rudderless, his teachers shaking their heads…
She sees now: some intuition of hers,
some undercurrent propelled her to do
what worried her mind, what seemed
to her mind but spoiling the child.
It had been enough to leave the child alone
to stumble, to learn in his own way,
to grow slowly, to read books of his choosing,
to chisel away his lonely way of art,
spirit-guided. Some dark secret knowledge
stirred within her even then.
Some obscure part of her knew even then
he’d help guide back the human pianist
to her sublime state: the intelligence that now
plays the music of the spheres.
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