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.
Roger Singer 