He plays for me on Sunday mornings,
his own compositions.
His shoulders rise and fall as he
deftly runs his fingers across the keys.
My body sways tentatively,
drinking in the melody.
It falls into discordant notes,
a painter venturing into dark shadows.
I am cloth, unravelling.
Like a dervish,
I whirl, my heart opens as
the music builds into a crescendo.
A sweet essence flows back into my blood,
as if it were remembering the warmth of youth,
Of being in the sun.