She sits on the hill above Wolfgangsee,
hearing her harpsichord compositions
Leopold censored from recitals, pleas
from her brother to challenge him, reasons
too radical for her heart. Recalls how
she loved applause, those bright admiring eyes
of elite audiences when she’d bow
with her brother as one. Those precious cries
for encores. That was long ago. Her men
are all passed on: father, brother, husband.
Soon she’ll return to Salzburg, six children
in tow, work as music teacher, demand
nothing from anyone. She feels fingers
ache for the dear keys. The lost years linger.
Roger Armbrust
December 12, 2014
