She plays beautifully; I adore her hands,
her fingers softly pressing the keys,
gently sliding away,
and then chaos! Romantic.
I cannot help but wonder;
without the piano, who is she?
Is she untouchable, the goddess?
Is music her soul, I think yes.
Does she know that I watch her;
she is exquisite, fascinating.
The beautiful lines of her figure;
and her pretty smile is precious.
For her touch what must I do,
her strong but delicate hands,
her fingers sweetly probing,
She lives in the mystery of storms:
The lightning, her feverish blood;
and thunder, her hammering heart,
oh… the rains, her juices flowing,
her misty clouds, spreading apart.
Yes, she is these things, and more.
How does one say, forever?
The Scribes bear witness:
“I dedicate to her every tomorrow.”
Poetically, she is the loveliest muse,
and literally, lines of romantic expression.
She is, Venus, Helen, Syren and Medusa,
Only fantasy explains her enigma,
I am in awe of her.
Truth, the vision in her eyes, and
trust, the love in her heart.
Though questions of her I may have,
confidently, one certainty exists,
“…whenever she touches me,
Copyright © 2013 Delbert H. Rhodes