A CHOIR GIRL AT PRACTICE

I see but soil, grass, stones
in this garden.
And the sky is bleak gray
and ever so still.
But those church bells,
often quiet in their
lonely spires,
were ringing.

Until she stands there,
on this storm swept day
where the raindrops shattered,
pervading percussion
toe the melody of her weeping.
While she whispers her tale.

But I am not listening,
not to her tale anyway.
I close my eyes and
hear only the orchestra
of the rain, the bells, and her tears.
Each crescendo and off-key note.
Each time she did not blend,
and each time the rain
drowned her melody.

I guess no one hears her tale.