Yousuf Karsh, 1957
He stares at the keys beyond his hands.
Not a note is depressed, nor even touched.
He is listening to the chord just played,
already hearing the ones to come,
just as his hands, high and arched,
hold traces of both past and future
whether they are rising or falling
or in that moment’s stillness between.
There is no blur, although perhaps
the tips of his fingers soften
into their reflections on the polished wood,
the way sound softens into quiet.