There is no creature more powerful than music,
voracious collector of sound and feeder of feeling,
capturing the beast of life with strums of her stringy tongue,
beating down halls with heavy drums of her feet,
reaching through walls with silk sighs of despair,
uncoupling doomed lovers with strokes from her fingers.
She is a word that shakes free of stammering silence,
to save boulders from canyons that lose understanding.
She rides miles atop the howl of a crazy blizzard, to gasp quietly in the ear of a sleeping child.
Her angry wrath trundles, crashes and swipes
through sweaty jungles of head-banging matted hair.
She is a goddess dancing nakedly in the sun,
every limb swaying with the reach of a ray,
she is in the jarring drill of a pile driver,
each smash of concrete scored to midsummer heat.
My blood rushes at the scent of her,
I tingle with pleasure at her skillful manipulation.
I try to be like her,
but my clumsy body lacks the rhythm in her soul.
My shoulders move so slightly out of time,
my toes tap songs she has already heard.
I asked her to teach me how to live inside the notes,
how to pull them out of me with beauty and grace.
“Can you come with me everywhere?” I said.
“I want to be you.”
“Listen”, she said.
“The only thing you can ever do is listen.”