Piano Fingers, Cello Feet
Sang the pipes of the organ in the back of the church
that flushed my body when we first prayed together
To something in particular neither of us quite knew
except each other, there, there was worship.
By the river was always a song on the strings of the willows
and through the cattails and our piano fingers
drew each other’s names in the dewy dirt
under cello feet crowing passion,
tangibility in unison with the right things, right moments
and the shade became a home to
oboe legs that curled and stretched away Saturday toast mornings
where there was a universe under an expanse of linen sky
posted on our clarinet arms.
Even in the dissonance of trumpet lungs screaming augmented chords
at mistakes and reality, a place where life is life and not a soundtrack,
and the thunder of the rainy seasons harmonized trombone laughter
when the electricity was gone no light save the fireplace,
and there was no dinner
but we fed off of our music,
and this viola heart-
This viola heart, my piano fingers struck a tune
for you every symphony you and I found beings bound together
first chair, number one fans,
you would simply listen
until I could see my song on your face;
your face that sounds like a piccolo every other day.
