Study

Smooth keys
beneath
my fingertips-
noon-shine strikes
my squinting eyes-
the window is cracked,
so the smell of grass
floods this room
she occupies.

Here,
frayed stacks
of symphony
teeter all around
while clumsily
I play a tune
of bright and
probing sound.

Here,
framed moments
line the shelves,
fading four-by-fours
of past.
Familiar eyes
sparkle in the
shutter, snap,
and flash.

Mid-chord,
I glimpse her
through the
parted glass,
earth-dusted and
clad in gloves and
kneepads.

She’s bowing
her silvery head,
winding
wild roses
through a
swirling
iron trellis.

Despite the gray
and stoop of age,
she looks almost
young
amongst the
herbs and blooms.

And I, despite
the thrum and glow
of youth,
feel almost
ancient in
this room.

Suddenly, I see
why she retreats
to this warm study,
as memories
I’ve never known
come close to
rushing through me.

Here,
her life swells,
distilled
and heartening,
with music
close at hand
for the tenderest
accompanying.