She builds a mosaic
across the nebula of her orbit.
The scope is held to her orb,
allowing her to capture the sudden eclipse.
She allows herself to lend an ear to the unheard, sonorous pieces of herself.
A violinist’s bow apart from the instrument leads an estranged life.
The white keys of a grand piano are fragmented without their black counterparts.
The orbit of her presence would become ephemeral
if she did not continue the tapestry guiding her solace.
The nebula could birth a star.
But what is she apart from the vortex of her quixotic nature?
A guitar without strings would bear no strum;
a songbird without wings would be left forlorn in its trilling.
Convince her that the trepidation she encounters is due to the eclipse.
As long as the luminous scraps band together,
she will form her mosaic,
denoting the halcyon that was.
EMILY DICKINSON 