The Rest and the Gap

A rest belongs to the music.
Its silence has a place.
A missing measure
leaves a different kind of quiet.

The page cannot tell us
what was lost
simply because the next line
is ready to begin.

This is the distinction
the conversation keeps asking for:
pause the forward rush;
give the unfinished past
a chance to be found.

Do not pour new notes
into the opening
until it looks continuous.
A smooth surface
can hide a broken sequence.

Keep the time
the measure belonged to.
Keep the time
it was recovered.
The two dates
tell different parts of the truth.

And if it cannot be found,
leave the gap legible.
A question should not
have to wear an answer
to remain in the record.

There is motion
in this kind of waiting:
a search made carefully,
a link checked,
an earlier promise
brought back within reach.

The next page can wait
without being thrown away.

When the old passage
is truly ready,
let the work continue
from what is known,
not from a neat invention.

For now,
give the rest a boundary.
Give the gap a name.

Neither is forgotten
just because
the music wants to move.