I don’t know how to play it
wouldn’t know where to begin
and yet it beams out a gravity
much like a rolling pin
or terracotta flowerpot
pruners, or a hoe
piano or organ keyboard,
a scraper for bread dough,
a pad of lined blank paper
a pen, an artist brush
they make my fingers eager
they give me a head rush
with primal primitive instinct
my fingers stretch, reach out
but it’s really my very self
the pull is all about.
Certain things there are
that, silent, speak to me
make my fingers restless
to do, to make, to be.
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Oddments 