When I was seventeen I began piano lessons. The sounds lightened the heavy tapestries that we hadn’t the heart to remove. I learned to play Greensleeves and Stairway to Heaven. Sometimes the teacher   would reach around my shoulders, his very existence ran through his fingers  into my hands.  Once we played Misty and my heart beat so hard against the walls of my chest that I lost my balance for the first time.  Later he  swooped into my dreams and like wild birds we took to the sky, the teacher and I.



Birds soar high above the ice chiseled cliffs,  roil  over  ancient forests at the moss covered foothills of  Mountains.  I hear the voices of ancestors,  perverse whispers of hate and grudges,   they are witness to our deception. They  know the gaps in our souls are filled with the same  darkness as theirs.  When we once again come face to face  they will  tell us how the hours passed so quickly.  You are that bird whose wings beat the air senseless, rainstorm eyes protest  a dream unlived. That perfect blue honey of desire you washed away in golden brown.  Swoop down, I miss the sound of you. Tell me how to survive beginnings.   Save me from this carousel,  my arms outstretched not knowing I am still  spinning.