she stares back
in the river
but does not see
me.

And he says of me:

"A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
--Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky."

I am a girl, as was she
(could not be any older than me),
O blessed city! --
of blind musicians and Yorkville women,
she sprouted from these streets like a lilac out of dead land,
and cupped a delicate hand, up
at me.

Want a sandwich? No, she still had two fries, cold,
Steel, like grey suits walking by,
O cursed city! -- Streets
barren as sidewalk cracks, avert her gaze,
walk past. And the jazz plays from a dim club...
She quietly rubs her round belly, blown,
bastard rat of a child -- my God!
Throw her a dime! light her a fire!
Eyes with hope retired, staring
at me.

Funny, I never really liked the metronome. In our old bungalow, when I still played on an upright, I practiced in the living room while my father prepared dinner in the next room. I remember how he would tap the chopping board with his cleaver along with my playing and scream from the kitchen, "Don't rush!" And, being a headstrong little girl, I would protest with clenched teeth, "I'm not!" Of course, I was rushing -- every single time.

I could never simply be comfortable in the constancy of a steady beat; instead, I had to impose my own pulse. The metronome became restrictive, frustrating, and annoying. I played fine without it. Who needs the metronome!

But. Of all people, I need the metronome. How could I have foolishly thought otherwise? How did I come to scoff at the time-keeping device that I so readily depend on now? Most importantly, I have come to see the beauty in Time. Perfect time, that is. For what could be more awesome and eternal than a steady pulse? It should be the thing I seek most diligently; my ears should be fine-tuned to hear its guiding voice. Because without it, I'm a mess.


Funny, the very things that make me a poor musician are the very things that make me a poor Christian.