At the Organ Bench

July 6, 2009
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As I sit

paralyzed eyes never move
from the music, the code.

I decipher it for the message,
which means

Dry hands
search for their destination,

but my mind,

that merry-go-round,

almost drops them an octave lower.

Imploring face
pleads for a small smile from my teacher,

spread as petals are
in the beginning of spring.

She nods the strength
to play the first note.

Timid fingers
press down,

then begin shaking

like a child in the cold.

As I sit,
finally playing the last note,

lips trying to resist

their slow spread across my face.

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