It's Still Life

Triptych: A Secret Music

I. Soundboard

Low notes pool —
amber, deep,
soaking the heartwood.

High notes fall —
shards of light
clinging to ebony.

The lid trembles, a held breath.
Even silence wears a gloss of oak.

II. The Pianist

Wrist, a willow branch.
Jaw, a carved vow.

He listens
to the shadowed-note,
the echo before the strike.

One finger brushes a key —
seeking not sound,
but the sun-warmed touch
left from yesterday.

He does not play.
He invites.
He waits for the keys to beg.

III. To Play Silence as well as Sound

No keys now —
just the quiet weight on his lap.

But the fingers keep their arc,
a bridge to a song
not yet returned.

In the blue-hour hush,
a chord sounds in the marrow:

Low A.
C.
Then the aching, perfect reach for E —
still fluent, still home.

He needs no piano.
Only the dark.
The music waits in his hands
like a second pulse.