Overture Your
irordfl
Against my
axe a press of chords ear,
your voice
A Symphony X heard once When I
If
as
young-
Soft and green
And
full of fancies.
X have come to )cnow the tempo Of your breaths, how they rise
And ebb and
slur
Xnto mine, the rhythm
Of your footfalls Stepping Into Une.
But this
Is
only the overture.
There are movements that are not yet known; Sounds made out of memory. Muted from the past. Xt iB not all resonant, or out
By
dear
wit or strain, yet still
X know the progression of each phrase. Your voice, the press of chords
Against my
ear,
and
The Symphony— X Icnow
It
by heart.
--Jennifer-Mae Barizo
