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.