the listener

Laura Theis

her magic was so gentle

you may not have known it

for a spell

the way she was able to listen so openly

that we were each coaxed into speaking

our language

the fiddle began to talk

of the willow tree it had been

how it had feasted on light and liquid

how it had swayed and creaked

in the wind like a door

to another realm

the piano confessed how its beauty was forged

from the killing of a playful giant who had loved

his life of mischief and joy

while the rain outside sang along in the dangerous language of water

a complicated grammar of clouds and droplets

stillness and rush

even the silence afterwards surprised itself

for the first time

in the mirror of her quiet attention

and bowed like a secret word

that had suddenly understood

its own significance