Sudden as a broken string, Scarlatti
materialized after you left this afternoon,
shimmering, there, on the claw-footed stool.
Tentative at first, he warmed to our piano,
foot heavy on the sustain pedal, hands
rising like laughter while arpeggios of gold dust
suspended gravity in a sunbeam. Then,
with a quill pulled from the air, and ink
flowing under the nib, he began to scratch out
a sonata in G—losing all notion of time in the allegro three-eight.
You find it on the stand upon your return
and play, perhaps more legato than he;
I listen, secretly pleased, and resist the urge to say
that he is standing behind the door, smiling.
2 comments:
What an evocative poem,P. You do create the atmosphere and the music. Almost see him behind her while she is playing.
Yes, the affectionate gift from one musician to another is told here with such affection that I wish to see more of the people involved.
Bravo.
Carol
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