Song

As my fingers glide over ivory,
press soft in, to tone to song,
warm color over starch, parchment,
rises music full for senses
hammer-struck strings from the mind
to the soul.

It is sound to me in silence
settling on my chest
spreading it’s hair on me
caressing, still and now.

A musician sees notes on paper
sees song as he’s learned to play
perhaps as it was intended.
The composer can only judge.

Still, and only in silence, juxtaposed,
I hear it.
I know what it is.

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