Baby Grand

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Gliding across black and white keys
Fingers pop, then bang and clang. 
Their resolution is quiet, subdued by a brass pedal
Another movement begins,
heart pounding; 
my mind is no longer in control of my fingers.
A page turns
lines and polka dots 
into notes, chords,
individual pieces with which both hands cooperate;
I am not making music, music is 
Making me independent as I claim my mistakes
and failures, blended into harmonious delight,
applause from my mother who loves anything
splendid produced from her baby 
grand.
Guide that inspired this poem: 

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