Nadia

Flute with no reed, violin

left unstringed.

Instrument evolved, built

with loving skill,

not, like this, to be silent.

She lives behind a wall of glass

which speech, touch do not pass.

But what she sees lives.  A flat illustration

jumps off the page—

the rider reins his galloping horse towards here, blows

his trumpet over her head.  The cock crows

triumphant in her face.

Not seeing only.  Her untaught child-hand

impossibly catches the movements and their sound.

Faces express feelings, release words.

She looks away from them, down, towards

hands sometimes, more often lower

to legs, feet, which unaware

betray so much.

These too her pencil catches,

these and their inwardness.

But kind patience pushes, pulls her to people.

Caresses, words, make occasional contact.

And now the vision begins to mist.  Hands seeking

other outlets

forget the pencil.

(And out of what depth, fingered on a steamed-up pane,

can that loud trumpeter charge again?)