Ode to a Piano

My, what a magnificent masterpiece is the
Piano; a delicate
Wonder is my Wurlitzer upright.
Ever more precious is the
Young Chang grand,
At which I enjoy
Sitting on Sundays.
Its soft cover I unfold,
Its polished, heavy lid I lift.
With crippled fingers I
Touch the sacred keys
Of black and white.
The ebony and ivory,
Smooth and glossy,
I caress with those self-same hands,
Cracked and lined with flexible
Folds that such an
Immortal, stolid instrument
Shall never know upon its own
Stalwart being.
As I press outwardly,
The internal components
Make a complicated
Dance
Of loveliness.
Each hammer strikes a succession of
Strings,
Which create chords
That feed my unworthy
Ears
With sweetness.
The sweetness becomes treasured
Music
The Magic of Sound
When dynamics and
Emotion
Imprint upon each rhythmic
Melodic
Phrase.
Passionate rapture fills my troubled soul
At the sound of that sugary
Sweetness becoming
The Magic of Sound and Soul
That is Music.
The rustic, worn wood
of the Wurlitzer feels
Ancient
To my young fingers;
To its wisdom I
Listen,
Fondly cherishing the soulful words
Of rich tenor notes
And delicate playfulness
Of the music-box-like pitches of
Its upper registers.
The dear, resonant
Vibrations
Of the Young Chang
Fill me with soothing
Calm.
Without such marvelous maestros
Of music to
Feed my soul,
Would I even live,
Or would I die of
Emptiness from such a
Hollow, abysmal fate
My soul is consigned to?