I sit yards away, near her, but this moment, she's so far from me, her eyes on the page her hands moving up and down keys, black and white against the olive-green antiqued upright our father brought home for her. Already at four I know the line I cannot cross to reach her when walls of concentration block entry to her heart, so taken with relearning the hardest piece she carries into her grown up life with its complex landscapes and quiet reflection for any soul who yearns in C sharp minor, who makes her way from celestial girlhood dreams to motherhood, only to find herself lost, wanting, and pregnant again. I know she is sad, in a forest with birds singing, by waters’ mirror of moonlight. She is not in this room with me. She is going back over the hard parts, turning the page, pushing through, lifting her hands, letting them fall, quieting me to deep attention, my first memory of watching her absorb something of her own, apart from me, and my own early call to play the piano just like her. May 3rd 2022
Early Morning Poems 