Pretty pink fingers
play the ivories
that speak to me.

They used to move
more than mere thoughts.
Now, they bend me
more generously
to old aching memories.

Soft concerto,
like the fluttering
of ornate
butterfly wings
going up,
up, up,
and away
to the blinding sun.

Till, the glare
of time
takes each chorus;

Till, the piano
loses all its keys,
and all those
lovely reminiscence
are locked
away from me
for eternity.