Playing Rachmaninoff

May 17, 2017

I thrust my hands
into the moving web to spin
out each sonic filament.
Each must breathe in its own
rhythm, be heard by its
familiar motifs.
Each must rise out of
the tangle, sing briefly,
fall away to whispers.

My fingers feel out strands
braided, stretched,
fragmented. I know them
like the hollows of my face.
I am the weaver at her loom,
phrases dangling from palms,
pulling gently across the clefs
to unravel the sound tapestry.

Sharon Scholl