Mothballs in a Piano

October 2, 2009
Are little gray and brown
Soft as lint
And wool-weaved
Into utter still perfection.

They reside in loneliness
All blanketed in dust
And long-forgotten;
In a piano unplayed, cold and creaky---
They sleep for so long…

Until someone comes,
Tears the wooden hollow of their universe
with a hammer
And they untwine;
Unfurl, unfold
To fly; soar
Out into the world
To find another lonely piano
To rest in.

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