At a country place in late October,
Where trees are dressed in antique colors,
Brilliant bursts of red and ochre overlay
A palimpsest of past pleasures.
Former lovers in the silent house, uneasy,
Wait for remembered tones of a grand piano,
And frustrated by time's passage, strain to hear
Chords played long past, and only half-recalled.
The briefest memory of passion's music
Fails to interrupt the silence.