Poetry

The practice area is like an orchard of sound
Where you pick notes as they ripen
And those that fall seed the ground.
 
You can harvest grapes from this vine
That grows along the staff of time
Following the sun into drums of wine.
 
The pianos seem near and far
Like conversations behind doors
Or rain on the roof of your car.
 
The practice area is a paradise
Where even angels clash
And beauty is soundly imprecise.  
 
Please listen to the children play,
Their music is so unaffected
You’ll hear the origins of rhapsody.