An email from my old music school arrived,
Missing another concert, not feeling revived.
Keening for the first piano, played from my core,
Can't be there anymore.

Missing the feeling of freshly printed scores,
Orchestra setting, violins left, cellos right, on the floor.
The conductor nodding, counting to four,
Memories, a timeline's reminder, galore.

Photo with my guitar on the wall so fine,
Part of that place, a memory that's mine.
My music imprinted, a bit of my soul's design,
Post-class sodas with lime.

Playing in summer, autumn, spring, and in the rain,
As if the clouds heard, playing Chopin, crying again.
Raindrops enjoying our music, on their transient lane,
Instruments, perhaps, missing me, a refrain.

Hard to leave, always a grief,
One more hour, to play there, a belief.
Being naive, it's far away, but my piano is near,
Playing all night, hoping the walls might hear.