Originally published on April 24, 2012 on the now-defunct Best American Poetry blog. Republished in The Trouble Clef.
The strings are the veins of music.
In the night, inside the piano,
they grow silence
until it ripens and calls
to the composer, who gathers sounds
in the darkness, like a blind-man
picking the wild flowers
guided only by their fragrance
— Lera Auerbach
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