Baby Grand

Gliding across black and white keys
Fingers pop, then bang and clang.
Their resolution is quiet, subdued by a brass pedal
Another movement begins,
heart pounding;
my mind is no longer in control of my fingers.
A page turns
lines and polka dots
into notes, chords,
individual pieces with which both hands cooperate;
I am not making music, music is
Making me independent as I claim my mistakes
and failures, blended into harmonious delight,
applause from my mother who loves anything
splendid produced from her baby

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem