Here I am,
staring again at keys—
cold, white and black.

Remembering where I last ended.
I was nineteen.

An upright held their stark geometry still,
it smelling of mineral spirits,
dust-filled,
until I first, at age eight,
plunked thin, short fingers down— 
a C major shock.

I scaled C to D to E,
then thumb-tuck pivot to F and G,
climbing up,
joined by left hand. 

I asked myself then:
Now how was that fun?
A harp twirled in my mind.

But I scaled simply with simple books,
to hymns I did not wish to play,
to classics,
to years of black dresses and silent judges,
to endless drills and afternoons extended,

to hear that last note:
Talent but thin fingers still too short— 
not enough range.

Yet today,
I run down the scales on a guitar band app,
smooth,
longing for hard, colder keys.

How could I have ever known
a new-found love of verse
would wish me to play?

My own tune,
set to my own poetry.