Remembering Miss Martin
Select your heroes carefully, she said.
Within her studio was Boulanger,
bookstalls by the Seine,
and Canterbury where her art
took on the patina of evensong.
I made of her the heroine apart,
feared her brittle tenderness,
and though she must have known,
I also feared her love.
The fear was in my fingers, too;
her piano could not sing for me.
I even feared her patience,
for she had no need to dramatize
that chasm in between her chair
and my disgrace.
Now forty years since her last breath,
She still transports me there,
and makes of it Elysium
wherein perfection lies,
where newfound wisdom listens
to the stillness teaching.
I see inside that studio,
a charter ship festooned
in fading portraits, musty scores,
and bound for shores where poplars chant
in whispers that I never heard before.
~
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