IVORY FINGERS

A gypsy vagabond of notes,

refreshing like spring rain, lifted up

with the fragrance from warm roads

mixed with cut grass, a moment alive

with sound from angels as the

piano created a language, familiar to

itself yet unknowing to many nearby,

listening as they would a speech dry from

paper, lifeless, missing the fluid meaning

of joy and expression directed from the fingers

speaking wisdom into a willing air,

circling like welcome storms, moving

over a canvas of faces, striking solidly

a message of hands separating the chaff

to the floor, leaving in its place a completed

recipe, needing nothing like morning

arriving with art and flavor.

 

 

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