The Language of Music

Dear Piano,

 

I have spent hours at your bench each day,

 

Practicing as the metronome ticks away.

 

You provide a space, be it ever so small,

 

To be wrapped in music’s sheltering embrace.

 

A sacred place, where love and fear,

 

Duel with each other as my fingers dance.

 

They rise upon swelling crescendos,

 

Then tumble exhausted into dissonant chords,

 

As I remember horrific words,

 

Spoken thoughtlessly in school hallways.

 

Oh, to hide with you, my musical friend!

 

And avoid life’s endless song of problems and tears.

 

To rejoice in solace for a moment.

 

To breathe in peace and quiet.

 

Though quiet does not seem to exist these days.

 

We’re told to hurry, to make the most of time.

 

To squeeze out every single dime.

 

From minutes run ragged, from a life in the fast lane.

 

But is this all that life is meant to be?

 

Is there not a pause button on this life I lead?

 

I say yes, and you are it.

 

I pause the world and all its cries. 

 

I recuperate.

 

I remember.

 

I rest.

 

I find solace in a silent friend.

 

I can write my problems in sound without words.

 

Creating, building, and fortifying,

 

A hidden land where each is free,

 

To interpret the meaning of the notes as they please.

 

Oh Piano, you express what words cannot.

 

What joys, what fears! 

 

What sorrows, what tears!

 

If we could speak in the language of music,

 

Might not all stand a chance of being heard?

 

Of being more than the person hiding in the corner?

 

But alas! Though you and I can speak this tongue,

 

It is intelligible to all but a few.

 

So dear Piano, I thank you so,

 

For offering me quiet,

 

And a place to compose.

 

Compose thoughts, compose feelings,

 

Expressed only in music.

 

And to speak the words,

 

That cannot be known.

 

Yours Truly,

 

Sarah W.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My community

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