Your lover sits in the straight backed chairwith her old lady's shawl, draped over the green cushion, and her old lady's charms within her acoustic body.
Years ago you made those climbing notes in the dark halls of tall stone when the thousand associations held out palms of echoes and gave to thunder. You were the master facing his slavery.
Now, with the mysterious halls abandoned, with all associations left there and your mind forced into the words that people hang on for grace or for condemnation, your lover waits to speak. But when she does, will it matter what she says?