Opus 74
By: Aislin Carpenter
It begins the same.
Regardless of breath, of nuance, of color.
Silence at the start.
A frozen sea; the waves pulled taught and
Tied together by a single string.
They wait for a minute movement
The smallest stroke that will set them free.
But for now, they are silent.
Filling the void: the relentless beating
Of one hundred tiny hearts,
The ruffle of parchment against metal.
The clack of a key or the snap of a string
A diminutive thrashing in the great blue monolith,
A fleeting flourish fading into
Silence.
Suddenly,
The waves straighten their broad backs and adjust their white hair,
Achingly slow, still encased in the ice.
Yet now, they are agitated
Waiting for the air to fill with breath and nuance and color
The thrashing of sea foam against a rocky shore, or
A gentle ebb atop fine, cream-colored sand,
Hands descend from lofty heights.
They melt the ice, cut the string.
Silence is usurped by
the sublime