Once limber and supple
hands now curled and mangled,
tangled in a mire of fingers.
Melodies once flawless
become less musical, more painful.
Trills are not as thrilling;
the hands are willing
but the magic has left,
leaving the fingers with little
or no memory. Every sensory
sensation rings in denigration
clumsily over the ivory and ebony.
The distance from High “C”
to an octave above is a chasm
that now causes spasms to my
gnarled knuckles. It is a stretch
to think my abilities are still here.
Now, I only play it by ear!


Written for WE WRITE POEMS – Prompt #93: Finger Painting