the rose gold of the autumn sun
filters into the sunroom where my Grandmother's piano
lives where sometimes I played Grieg's Nocturne, or
Ravel's Pavane and dilgent gum starred baby exercises
like the March in Middle C
in memory only now,
I gaze at the ivory keys, the grand Grand Piano
where she gave music lessons; where my much more gifted sister
played everything imaginable and with brilliance
at first reading, under the burnished star of St. Cecilia
and I miss
the sound, the sound of waters resounding of my Grandmother's
Liebestraum
I miss so many things that seem to me, music and all
entirely made of rose gold, a softened gold resembling a locket
I would wear close to my heart, springing it
open occasionally, in these waning days,
most often in secret
to let the ghost music out
mary angela douglas 17 june 2021
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