The ivories

The long bars are

White measures without notes,
Some just one beat sustained.
The sheets don’t fit the rack:
What use are thirty-eight pages,
Of holds? What is the sound
Of a note without vibration
If not silence? Anxious waiting.

Until hammer strikes anew, we recall
It once felt like C major,
Dry triumph
Gone it has become A Minor
Damp reflection.

Returned further transposed, it’s usually

Cold slow jazz,
or brisk winter blues.

© SXT 4/19/2021