When I was five,
I fell to earth from the realm
of angels blowing trumpets.
Music flowed through my fingers
at the keyboard.

Inspired by sonatas and pavanes,
my hands grew more confident
spanning octaves,
the sound large with arpeggios
and half notes.
My practice gave it shape.
Hours of exercises,
sometimes with blisters.

Once at a recital,
I forgot a Mozart piece,
all the runs and trills blurring.
The audience stared, mute.

Concerts came and went.
I remained silent
though I could blow notes
on empty glass goblets
and the tune froze in my ears.

All I ever wanted was to be pure
like the stone angel at the center
of a fountain,
water washing over my back and shoulders.