Monday, February 27, 2012

small comfort

I'll sit at this piano until I die--
Let the music be the tears I cannot cry.
Each note, a syllable, to fill the space--
Painting the words my heart cannot face.

Hard ivory and wood worn with time,
Many hands have touched; tears sublime. 
My fingers--so small--yet a large sound make,
Small comfort, shielding my heart from certain break.

I'm not a master, though I do try
Bach would laugh as I would cry. 
Of all the melodies played in our time,
Mine--but small thread in that great twine.

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