grand piano held a mouthful of maple tones
they cascaded with the release of pedal
keys and carnival percussion
trapped bears and butterflies
together in a solid box
What key becomes the story?
What fragrance of sound becomes a floor, a stage?
What fingers move years?
How is the body of sorrow played?
What timbre is joy?
What strings become the staff?
What lines open the wind into the throat?
What bench holds one sitting there,
playing for approval, until the breaking
voice has been outgrown by some sound
stretching wider than belly,
breaking into an open ended question within a chest,
until only the music, it softens and crystalizes at once,
barricading the door of the performance
for solitude with the sound.
Copyright © 2019 by Bree Devones Hsieh.
