Come, put your hand on my frame –
what you feel is potential energy brimming,
wanting conversion – into kinetic Mozart.
Or touch my strings – they’re quivering Scriabin
even though no hammer strikes. Something circles
inside me, a word? a memory? Name it.
Brahms’ Intermezzo in A Major. Yes,
that’s the piece. I remember your zeal
as you brought it to life. I know what I am
and why: a gift given long ago for love. Therefore
play me. Bring your sweet fingers, not fearing
the smallness of your gift.
– Sheila Rosen
