At one time

it loomed

amid dusted

shadows,

voiceless

in the house

swollen grey

with silence.

​

I was young then

(almost too young)

on the night

it first sang:

disjointed melody

as she re-corrected

her fingering,

a quiet cantabile cresting

then flowing forth.

​

Mesmerized by her

melancholy,

I almost didn’t hear

the words

haunting the underscore,

an ethereal epistle

to her husband–

blue, blue, my world is blue

blue is my world now I’m

without you...

​

Like fire flies whirling,

the notes extended

vaporous tendrils:

to search for

the man,

to caress his

deaf ears,

to coax him

from the bottle

​

back towards listening.