the long sweep of lace curtains.
She played a running melody.
her wrists and hands
seemed full of people;
stupid people who made her play.
through trembling limbs
and burning eyes;
played and sung
hoping to discover the secret.
and thrilled out
into the air –
the day before the tennis tournament.
Copyright © January 2013 Norma Martiri
Created from Pointed Roofs by Dorothy Miller Richardson