Echoes of death briskly marched her percussion anthem slowed and I stroked my broken instrument Like Chopin’s viola. Echoes of her life stopped I shook like Harp strings, Kissed her pursed silent flute Where breath crafts music no more. Echoes of a church choir sang My boxed instrument burned. A stranger in a dress spoke of you Then I described you without words, Through woodwind and echoes And you returned one last time In the chord before the crescendo.