A Loss Forged from Andante

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Mornings, as well, your mentor wept truthfully, 

then played the spinet in his dark-grey parlour, 

and, with weary eyes that bled 

from hardship through the autumn rains, forced 

ivory keys to sing. Someone had always watched him. 

 

You’d pass by and discern a sombre warbling, fading. 

When the sound was dead, he’d lament, 

and carefully you may enter and join, 

knowing the nuanced depths of his loss. 

 

Following closely behind him, 

you would heed his fermata 

then understand his slowed pace as well. 

Where did she go, why did you ask 

about one’s broken and contused heart?