Its ending hushed
Of a mournful sonata,
The bleaker notes of lament
Hollow echoes in an angry landscape
Is spent love
Useful as a pocketful of broken violin strings:
This one snapped during practice.
I can’t remember why this string died.
I hold on to broken things.
In its hiding place
My white embroidered cardigan,
A gift once best loved
Now out of vogue
The pockets filled with broken violin strings.
Hours evolving into
Seasons crawling or flying
The act of living
I wait for the courage to severEach remaining string.