Musing

And as she aged
She whispered
Soft and always softer
My hand on hers
Her fingers worn and weakened arms
Breath fading fainter
How she played less
Sang less
The instrument and failing voice

In her downbeat years
She would come to hum to silence
Music that had been youth’s
Burning
Longing
All discovering
And hope for everything to come

Aging optimism
And music’s death coincide
In some way for her
All piping stopped
Grown to riper days

Does not mean so
For mine
I’ll play and sing
As always a tomorrow
Squeeze her hand good night