grand piano held a mouthful of maple tones

they cascaded with the release of pedal

keys and carnival percussion

trapped bears and butterflies

together in a solid box

What key becomes the story?

What fragrance of sound becomes a floor, a stage?

What fingers move years?

How is the body of sorrow played?

What timbre is joy?

What strings become the staff?

What lines open the wind into the throat?

What bench holds one sitting there,

playing for approval, until the breaking

voice has been outgrown by some sound

stretching wider than belly,

breaking into an open ended question within a chest,

until only the music, it softens and crystalizes at once,

barricading the door of the performance

for solitude with the sound.  

Copyright © 2019 by Bree Devones Hsieh.