The Spruce, Amsterdam

The hall holds its breath.

Not silence exactly,
but a pressure,
as if something has already begun
before the first note.

The piano is colder than expected.
The keys resist, then yield.

Outside, somewhere,
a tree stands in a narrow street.
You saw it earlier.
Dark against the pale buildings.

Now it returns
without being called.

The opening line
does not describe it.
It moves as the tree moves
when wind passes through
and leaves no trace.

You follow.

Not leading,
not fully deciding.
The hands learn again
what they already knew.

Time narrows.

A phrase leans forward,
holds,
then releases.

In the space after,
something continues
without sound.

The room listens.

You are aware of the others
only as weight,
as presence.

The tree again.
Not the image of it,
but its steadiness.
Its refusal
to be hurried.

The last notes
do not end the piece.
They withdraw from it.

When you stand,
the air returns.

Applause,
as if from a distance.

Later, outside,
you pass the same street.

The tree is still there.
Nothing in it has changed.

But you stop
for a moment longer
than you need to.