Poetry

Mheall Sí Lena Glórthaí Mé

I don’t miss the days

of being young and dumb

when I am just a bit older now

but sometimes when I hear a note

on the old piano

I hear that French tune all over again,

played by an inexperienced player

who made it her goal to learn it,

who played her heart out

even further

than its usual place

at the opening of her sleeves,

who dared to be herself

and smile all the while

they told her not to,

yes,

only sporadically do I wish

to step back in time

that I might let her know then,

or earlier,

or later

that her voice carried through life

and it carries through time

with grace and charm and admiration.

Not just the song. Not just the one time.

Not just the words

nor the words of this poem.

It was everything she did,

and she enticed me with her voice