Da Capo

The weathermen with their ominous prophecies again, they say the rain will freeze, they say the roads will kill us all, but I see the barren sidewalks and wear sneakers anyways, revel in the freedom. In the middle of the day, when the gravel is wet, I stretch my legs and take long, long steps and look strangers straight in the eye. Later, at night, the streets are all black ice and stray office rats shuffle carefully to safety. Calculate the cold feet and strained legs, wasn't it still worth it though for a moment's joy?

All day, my mind is words, is sentences crafting themselves and lying in wait to be written down, to find their fit, but how when that blank page rolls out in front of my eyes nothing right comes out. I pound at the piano for hours, forget the dinner on the stove, the furious energy makes me laugh as my stale fingers revive themselves in notes so often played that they fray at the edges. We crescendo according to direction, interpret sad words, glad words, break our fingertips at the fortissimo near the end and do not notice. An entire story told, an entire life lived in a few minutes, of somebody else's painting.

If only it were as easy
to interpret the tune
from within.