Steinway

Ringed fingers beat your pearled ivory, her fingers
So short—the stretch, the reach, is other worldly.
Her gnarled knuckles, rocking horses,
like indefatigable child’s play.
On the bench at her side—
She teaches again, what I rehearse yearningly.
Strange, the stories fingers tell,
Hers, fast stories of past fame,
Broadway days vaguely shimmering,
From the black and whites into our hearts;
Steinway, it is a solid tune you grind,
And ours too, can be harsh.
Your practicum course has enabled Evelyn,
to reach the highest climbs of first Sopranos,
blending harmoniously with your hard rock maple,
but mine is a mellower mahogany whine. A
Mellifluous contralto song: of Knabe woods
Call my voice on the evening’s breeze;
Your keys fly with her dancing hands,
in spotlights and cityscapes,
Steinway, you storm her mighty roar
—like Waves Beating Shores beneath her hands.
wyckoff-evelyn

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About m.a. wood

writer, thinker, musician, teacher
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