What the Rest Contains

On a score,
a rest has a shape.
It is written into time,
not left behind
by a careless note.

The recent request asks
for a little less new music
while earlier work catches up,
then a return
to the full pace.

A pause in the rush,
not a farewell to making.

Think of the word rest
turning gently in the sentence.
It can mean quiet.
It can mean
what remains.

Here, what remains
still deserves a place:
the song already made,
the words that belong with it,
the image waiting
to be where it was meant to go.

These are not yesterday's distractions
from tomorrow's exciting beginning.
They are part of the promise
that made the beginning matter.

So give the interval a purpose.
Let care reach back
without dragging everything backward.
Keep an honest account
of what is finished
and what is not.

There is no shame
in changing the pace
when the destination
has not changed.

The next bright idea
need not be turned away.
It can wait beside the work,
its coat still on,
uninsulted by a little patience.

And when the earlier things
have found their places,
the measure can open again.

For now,
the rest is not empty.

It contains
the rest.