Fantasia
by Elizabeth Grubbs
I breathe in
problems, work, schedules . . .
I exhale
as my fingers brush the ivories—
Clarity.
First,
choppy sounds.
I attempt
to grasp
this strange place.
My hands—
Large creatures
traverse in awkward steps and leaps,
falling in dissonant ditches,
longing to see
the River.
Then,
my fingers find harmony.
The moonlight snake on the water—
smooth melody.
The rhythm of the bullfrogs—
a lulling bass.
I am the same
as the River
as the music
as the ivories
But only for a trickling moment.
The sunrise falls
creeping into every dark secret—
and the pulse slows.
A cadence closes.
The song stops.
My fingers continue to dabble,
creating shapes in the mud,
but the moon has left
the lyric now gone
the water scattered.
If only the River did not drip through my fingers so quickly . . .
