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
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