I am a vessel for the songs my father played
late in the night as I drifted through dreams.
The melodies, hanging in the air like twinkling stars,
faint and cool just before the morning,
enter my ears and set off fireworks among my cells.
As the snowflakes land softly on my eyelashes
on the darkest nights when noise is ****** away,
the weight of my steps falls in time to my breathing
long ago, curled away within my blanket,
surrounded by the mystery of the deep winter.

I am a protector for the songs my mother sang
in the dim light of spring evenings when the wind blew warm.
And I, in little yellow sundress with dirt between my toes,
grew, a stubborn **** before the windows
that spoke her poetry in tendrilled flowers of sound.
On days when orange light oozes through the leaves
And fire fills my chest in rage and glory,
Rustling breezes take me towards piano’s edge
Where the smell of molding notes and yellowed melody
Stands stagnant in the glowing haze of summer.