Listening to her play her piano is always calming to me. I don’t understand it. The piano has always been a special instrument to me, even if I never learned to play it. It is basically a harp laid on its side, the strings of which are struck by hammers operated by keys. It’s a stringed instrument. It is a harp in all respects, and I love harps, too.
So, I thought I would write my 9th terzanelle to her and her piano, as a thank you of sorts.
Baby Grand
For Bonnie
Set in spruce and maple, with veneer of stained mahogany,
Her strings take on the fullness of rushing northern winds,
Sprawling open spaces strung in true and timeless harmony.
Within a rounded casing, beneath the sloping lid,
Gleaming golden iron holds a harp to mountain resonance;
Her strings take on the fullness of rushing northern winds.
Careful fingers fashioned every nuance, carved in elegance,
Where Cristofori’s vision lies fixed within the frame;
Gleaming golden iron holds a harp to mountain resonance.
Her scarred veneer remembers what men forget with time;
Tuners come and temper troubled chords back into melody
Where Cristofori’s vision lies fixed within the frame.
Colors fade and sully, yet she never loses empathy;
Her chords are kept in concert with nature’s subtle tones;
Tuners come and temper troubled chords back into melody.
Despite the many winters, her timbre never wanes;
Set in spruce and maple, with veneer of stained mahogany,
Her chords are kept in concert with nature’s subtle tones,
Sprawling open spaces strung in true and timeless harmony.
