Your thumbs and fingers appear to sprout three
inches when you first touch keys with gentle
strokes, then flash left hand in conductor’s spree
near your face, directing your right’s play till
left decides again to join joyous dance.
Were this my first glance, I’d deem you blind, eyes
rolled in trance, or rapt in some mad romance
with your Steinway as your head bows, rises,
bows again, face quivering, lips pleading
with keys and melody not to leave you,
never go, as if internal bleeding
will end all now, lover’s last touch but true...
then like spring rain you halt in mid-refrain—
critique with clearest phrase—begin again...
Roger Armbrust
March 19, 2008
