Trembling fingers, and one deep breath.

Eyes closed as the tips of his fingers

Grace the smooth edge of the ivory washed keys.

And the notes on the page jump out at him –

Decrescendo here! Forte there! A trill now!

The notes dance like his fingers, taking their ending positions too soon.

He’s a pianist, they say, in awe of the brilliance, leaping up

On their toes to applaud a man

Who has never once

Considered himself a

Pianist.

And once the stage lights dim,

And the curtains swoosh closed,

He takes his place by the piano again,

To an empty auditorium, 

Seats void of chatter and murmur and awe.

No trembling now, no deep breath needed.

Eyes focused on the old black and white keys,

And fingers that tap out a hearty melody.

There are no notes now,

Only his heart,

Playing the song of a musician,

And not a pianist.