Her practiced fingers stroke the well-worn keys—

A simple melody with simple ease—

Then reach for fifths to fill the pattern’s run

Alone. No rush. There’s no one else to please:

No judge, no jury, no race to be won.

So she slows—settles to a mournful pace

Reminding her of all the pain it took

To get her here: the lines she had to trace

To rise above and toss away the book

Alone. No rush. There’s no one else to please

And that’s enough. She sets her music’s sun

And beauty echoes from her hard-earned grace…

But sly shadows steal an embarrassed look.