poem
Through You
December 31, 2005
There was something to it
The way your hands dashed and crossed each other
The scythe-like curve of your wrists
You were sitting straight, a delicate foot on the pedals, head slightly inclined
Eyes held in a stoic stare of possession
Possessed by the keys your fingers found with a sensual precision
Over and over again they fell
An ivory map spread out before you
Worn thin from your touch
The song did not burst or explode It spilled Bled out of you Like the hot pulse of blood from an open-wound There was longing and despair Resentment and resolve The unspoken words became thread In the tapestry of the music Woven into the fabric of all of this Their design Worked by the loom of your hands Into an epiphany A release A constant and complex series of notes Not simply chosen—but delivered Through you
The song did not burst or explode It spilled Bled out of you Like the hot pulse of blood from an open-wound There was longing and despair Resentment and resolve The unspoken words became thread In the tapestry of the music Woven into the fabric of all of this Their design Worked by the loom of your hands Into an epiphany A release A constant and complex series of notes Not simply chosen—but delivered Through you