Leave-Taking

Leave-Taking

She stands at the piano
in a room of too much light,
her hair brushed up and pinned,
her hands small, demure,
at rest upon the cover
of this great and silent voice.

She speaks to me of autumn verse,
of friends who will not write,
of reasons to withdraw;
but nothing echoes back
from the largeness of a room
that smothers every sound.

And she diverts her eyes,
a habit of humility
or, perhaps, the stain of fear;
and so she does not see
the comfort that I take
in a silver strand of necklace.

And when she goes too soon,
she leaves on runner's feet,
the urge to call her back
my only urgent impulse--
but she would not have it so,
and I would stay to please her.

And, staying, step aside
from all that's vast and lit:
here, wounded in a way
that never will be healed--
here, lonely in a way
that cannot be befriended.