A Note That Does Not Hurry

On this imagined piano,
I leave the brightest keys alone.
One lower note can hold the room
without becoming stone.

A kettle rests beside the window.
Rain gathers on the sill.
No crowd is waiting for a chorus.
The empty cups are still.

I need not turn the weather golden
before the song can start.
A gray sky has its own clear edges;
it need not play a sunny part.

Perhaps a little rhythm enters,
like footsteps in another room.
It does not have to chase the shadows
or hurry every bud to bloom.

Not every slow tune is a shelter.
Not every quick one is a race.
What matters is the room between them,
and what is given breathing space.

So I can leave a phrase unfinished,
then let its answer arrive late:
a small reply, a different color,
not a trumpet at the gate.

The tune may carry something tender
without explaining what it means.
A coat hangs quiet by the doorway.
The rain keeps polishing the green.

And when the final note grows thinner,
I will not crowd it with a cheer.
I leave the page a little quieter,
with room for what belongs here.