When my fingers touch the keys,
they know not where to go.
Though the heart hears the song,
my hands don't move.
I can imagine what it is,
that I wish to play.
But the fingers are still,
quivering,
silent they stay.
If I let them wander,
they truly do.
Not like jazz,
or off waltz tune.
They meander and explore,
like the body of a new lover.
Questing for that which is desired.
Occasionally a tune,
but it rarely transpires.
When my fingers touch the keys,
those black and white windows
to a world of chords and minstrels,
they pause,
Perhaps in awe
or respect.
For those who have come,
And that which has yet.
