At Christmas, the tree lights rainbowed the keys
as I played the melody of ‘Silent Night’
or ‘Walking in the Air’. No one hurt me
at the piano. The room was formal, full of light,
with a door that no one opened. I could play
a knotty trill or mordent over and over,
until I had it in my fingers, the way
if done enough, the body will remember.
Whatever was beyond that door -- our fretful
terrier, a flying mug, a fist hole
in the wall, inside there were sonatas,
Gymnopedies and waltzes, Bach’s Cantatas,
little songs of peace, the promise-always
of a snowman who’d take my hand, and fly me away.