(Schubert Piano Trio No.1) Nothing stands still for long – nothing, no one
is longer than pause. Walk then at a brisk
pace, feel the blood flow and the breath swell, risk
the awful chance that no work will be done
today. Except that of course it will; it
always is. There is no doubt that the fault
we admit is a dance step, a slow waltz,
the breath, the caesura: we pause to distil it.
Here is a meaning, just one, only mine:
each pause is a movement, a single frame,
brother, sister, daughter, son, husband, wife;
each movement the sum of pauses, red wine
poured constantly into a glass, its name
Un Poco Mosso. Share it. It is life.