I gazed at my hands,
my fingers, caressing the keys,
hoping, begging to coax from them music;
something, anything melodious to calm
(as David, with lyre, soothed the tormented Saul)
This is…was something I saw, marveling,
and heard, envying,
Audia, my grandmother,
Helen, sister of my grandmother,
Lolita, my mother,
Wayne, my brother,
at piano and organ,
do countless times…
something it seemed, nay, I knew
I ne’er had the grace to do.
I resented my unresponsive fingers,
by talentless gravity bound, still and unsounding.
I closed my eyes,
fearing that my staring, my glaring would bring swift ending
to my (whate’er!) composing.
Is that how it happens?
Only those with the gift can create without seeing?
For what they invent already hath been dream’d and fashioned
in their ageless imaginations?