In the gap, in the mind, there's a rest.
I imagine that it's scripted to score.
That a symbol is placed to halt quest.
To halt thought for a minute—or more.

And one lifts their hands off the keys.
And waits for silence—to fall.
And in the hush the muse feels at ease.
It's present in this space—and enthralls.

Like sun's kiss on soft, silky, breeze.
Or rumble in early, spring, storm.
It's like God is moving to please.
And he's conducting his tunes to inform.

And in that space all-time makes peace.
And one senses this feeling—so warm.
It's still there when composition is released.
And it stays to warm the bright, winter, morn.

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