Playing the Prelude

Gliding my fingers
like a wand, I touch,
the labyrinths of air
grown solid and spilling
into black and white.

I close my eyes, tilt
my chin upward,
move my hands
legato through
the secret veins
of memory tracing
its score upon the keys.

I have forgotten
the mistakes, which
no longer matter
and fall like tiny sparks
struck from the tail
of a subtle star
slipping into the
seamlessness of sound,

the exquisite meandering
line, like a mysterious
step, the shadow
of a disappearing dance.