They went away.
It was gentle,
a touch on the upper arm
by an old friend; like a musician
saying, this is enough for now,
replacing his instrument in its case,
and bidding good night.
Slowly the gathering rooms
of my compatriots have emptied,
and I wonder if it is I
who shall be left alone
amidst this lingering resonance, listening
to the wind-dance outside,
reiterating the feeling of that final violinist
in Haydn’s symphony;
or will it be my erstwhile companion
on those long-ago bicycling treks,
even now faltering, vision and hearing uncertain,
who will sit here, just as singular,
wondering if I, unperceived,
am still standing in the window’s bay,
watching the whirl of winter’s first snowfall,
momentarily silent
as the space between that music’s movements,
or have just stepped out for a moment,
and will eventually return,
like that triumphant conductor,
to take my bows from the podium.