When I was freckled faced and young
I stood still on a corner of a red brick road
watching in faint outlines the shape
of leaves reaching for endless sky
brown speckled branches thick with heavy, green.
I listened to every hiss and swish of wind,
the low whimper of a stray wild dog.
Waiting, I stared up at an open window,
like an audience waiting for the rise
of a thick, red velvet curtain.
Slowly, a wave of notes danced through
open window over four parked automobiles
and into ears. A twirl of notes danced down
empty foyer, down stone, key steps,
out the brown oak door into the soft light of evening.
I listened crouched next to paraffin light,
this sun of mine waltzing.
I cocked my head back and forth
drinking in every sweep of sound.
It was piano music, rich, sweet hopscotch
language, a black and white ivory board,
the magical sound of Mr. Bach.