A minor key
Schubert Sonata,
Raw and soothing,
A textless cantata.
He played with a stillness—
Like a Fool who ran out of time.
His tune developed gently,
Its melody apt and prime.
Effortless, like Schubert,
He flaunted the lilting flow.
He was calmly attentive
Not to overstay when he must go.
The coda was announced.
The metronome wound down.
Music was his metaphor,
His mantle, an ample crown.
The final page,
Turned against his will.
The ending stalked
Begging him be still.
He had made it home
For a final, shortened Act.
But the curtain must be pulled shut.
His bows must be matter-of-fact.
