Photo by S. Auberle

old poem, new photo

LUCINDA’S SYMPHONY 

To see the world in a grain of sand, and to see heaven in a wildflower,

hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour.

             -  William Blake

My great-grandparents were called

the Plain People.  I never knew them

but for this one story that survives

of Grandma and her piano,

it’s wood burnished like satin

from beeswax applied as often

as eight children and a farm allowed.

The piano sat in her parlor

as she never did,

and children could only look,

admonished sternly if they touched

this sinful object, its music forbidden

by Amish folk on their narrow

path to heaven.

But Lucinda didn’t care.  I imagine

her on a winter day, the parlor icy,

sun shyly touching the piano.

Lucinda’s hands trembling

as she presses one key, softly—

hearing a symphony

in that single note.