I have seen her
Morning tea
Lay still beside the keyboard.

I have seen her
Faltering eyes
Boxed inside the metal of
Black spectacles.

I have seen her
Winter scarf
Around that white twig neck, purple veins.

I have seen her
Patient gaze.

I have seen her hands—
Seen their movements,
Perched over paperbacks,
Leafing through thin brown pages,
Tactile, always intently rising
And falling on the many keys;
The orchestra of those keys
And the tick-tick-tick clock
Keep me from the words—
The words in front of me!

I have seen her—
But her voice I heard only once.

Four little words.
“Historical Section, Seventh Isle.”

How strange those words seem now
Left hanging in the air
By twisted metal wires
In a moment supported by
Strings.

I didn’t think much of it, I
Located my little book on
Roman history
And read in silence.

And so I have seen her—
But her voice I heard only once.
Only once.

How I wish we had spoken
On that dense evening.