Everywhere I lay my hands
I hear music. Each touch
on the computer keyboard,
my fingers drumming
scales on the bedside table
as I’m falling asleep.
I feel my brain unfolding,
gently, like a silk scarf.
I learn to play with two
hands, in minor keys, with feeling.
Alone in my room, I write
a sonata, then an opera.
The house begins to flood,
seams bursting, notes
trickling down the walls.
You still haven’t come back,
so I have to do the rescuing myself,
using the piano bench as a raft.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like the way this escalates to floods of songs; operas, from the small beginning tentative notes of the novice piano player. Bravo!