I feel you in the music of the clouds
When the rain keeps rhythm in my heart,
Or when my soul can’t breathe. You left me, sister,
Here under mother’s rueful gaze, her pain
A poison I no longer fear, now loathe.
Remember? You mocked me when I called you
Foe, your frailty my rival. I prayed
For illness, sought to suffer like you did
Knowing mother loved your infirmity
Resented my health, my robust, boy-like
Strength. I wanted all you had and were.
While mother wanted nothing more than you
And a son, the treasured son I cannot be.
You alone said, “Nonsense. You’ll be brilliant.
Just find a concerto of your own.”
Now you’re gone, and who will help me string my
Bow? Who will turn my pages, make me smile
Through Dvorak, Schumann, and the rest? No one.
My cello is buried here. My music was you.