Help me with these little sounds

Or, December 2nd

Cellist resting

Sometimes she rests so long she rises

and the light is gone from the window,

the leaves have let go of the tree's hand.

A decline in effort correlates to a decline

in profit, in production, in sweetness of song—

she suspects, though who at this exact moment

is listening?  Brain has made up its mind

to be the quiet half of the conversation,

lacking humor, lazy on the uptake,

late to the table, but her hands just keep doing

what she even half wills them to,

the way it takes love a long time to find

another way.  But even her hands will lie flat if she keeps an eye.

Either the floor or the back of her head is singing.