Snow

Falls outside.

I wait impatiently by

The warmth of the fire

For my frozen fingers

To move once more.

Joints stretching, knuckles curling

Skin itching

To brush against ivory.

Ears thudding,

Unaccustomed to the lack of scales, triplets,

Chords,

Reverberating in their drums.

So I pull out the bench,

Prop up the cover,

And a smooth valley of white

With scattered black mountains

Greets my waiting eyes

And shimmers under my

Desk lamp sun.

And I play.

Slowly, methodically at first,

Until my heart leaps with the first crescendo

And the notes stitch me a pair of wings,

And I’m flying,

Lost,

But flying,

And it takes me a while

To realize it’s over.

No applause.

Just the silence of snowflakes

Patting the frozen ground.

I hold my breath

Until my head is as numb as my fingers were

Not wanting to exhale,

Out of fear that the feeling

Would escape,

That the bubble of notes and chords

Would burst into nothingness,

And I’d be destined to a life

Without music.

I play in black and white,

But I feel,

I feel in color.