I softly fingered black-white keys, I could
not press a tune. So I’d just watch as They
would play, the fingers dipping clouds of white
like mist in valleys come to frolic here.

A hundred years it stood – now more. And I
convinced myself that it would never sing
for me. And then a bow was placed in my
right hand, and I was told to read the notes.
Oh how I missed the clouds of white. In time
I learned to read the circles – it wasn’t song
to me. But I just screeched the metal knife
(and just as sharp!) across the strings. Too soon
the miles of West Virginia sky glide by
and we arrived to sleeting rain and Mount
Rainier as I wrote singing-songs to pass
the time. The houses, years, they floated by
like streams. Then quickly I went out to learn
some mysteries. Like names of chords and tones
that lead and ways to jazz. I once haphazardly
began to trip, then I discovered those.

Those notes I still detest, make no mistake.
I once began to play for them and not
for you. But now I’m back, my friend, just keep
on showing me the way until I wend.