She sits on my lap–smooth, cool whiteness
under her fingers–tick of the clock barely pierces
the silence. She pushes against a cluster of notes
and is surprised. I watch her face reflected in the ebony.
I play figures against the keys. She lays
her hands on mine–following up and down.
And she sings. Ecstatic eruption–conversation
with the notes.
I do not say to her—This is G. Nothing could be
I press the pedal, letting all the notes jumble
together. We sit perfectly still as they hang
in the air–breathing the music–feeling the coolness
of it–listening as the notes separate to dance singly–then
She pounds the keys and squeals with joy as they yield to her
their song. She slides her fingers over them–probing. What is it
about smooth, cool, white that makes this?
Clock ticking–silence–tiny hands–shared breath–singing–
warm babies in laps–leaning into one another–wonder–
cherubic face reflected in ebony–joy.