When the poet died

When the poet died
the keyboard lost all its notes,
the black and the white.

The slippery green frog
and blue horses
were the poet’s own song.

She talked to stones,
felt the deep sting of a wasp,
knew loneliness too.

She passed this way,
playing high in a wild sky,
attracting the sun.

Not for her the fumes of the city.