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The Harpsichord Player
Day after night after day once more.
Playing away a made up score.
Beeswaxed rosewood smooth and clear.
Sounding out to all who hear.
White wood walls
cast a blue sky tone.
Feathers and brass.
Always alone.
Ebony cane, hard and warm.
Like the low notes,
the light of the dawn sun,
rose and peach.
Faces are blobs,
but the voices are clear.
The garden is fresh
now spring is here.
My family died
but I found a new sight,
playing each day
and waiting each night.
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