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Heard
Heard
Quiet.
My fingers shake.
Bows are ready.
Tongues rest on reeds.
Anticipating the moment
the baton
falls,
and time suddenly
begins.
The clock hands wake from their monotonous
ticking and stretch with the rubato
of Chopin, leap with the brilliance of Bach,
and stroll in the heavens of Debussy,
answering to the beckonings of the instrumentalists.
The swarm of notes surrounds me
like tiny rivulets,
as I hammer the keys into
buzzing strings.
Rolling melodies soar across
bright bass lines, harmonies
flow in and out of my heart.
The trembling disappears from my fingers,
but the music shakes the room,
vibrating in sync with nodding heads and tapping feet.
I sit up straight,
driven
by this special gut-tightening--
A surge that begins to crest,
rocketing up,
carrying me toward that inevitable, awful peak,
the thought of crashing down upon shore
to cold, dark silence
dangerously close
to ushering everything
to a complete halt.
I have played the piano for ten years, and I was inspired to write this poem by a lifelong love for music.