It was late in winter when I heard the thin, halting piano through the walls:
A neighbor playing Chopin, but with care, pausing,getting it right.
Having no scholarly sense of romantic piano
And partial judgment, I felt sorry for the strange man, whose playing
Was weak and earnest, inflected by the tired life.
So I imagined it. A sadness born of loving that music…
That’s the kind of thing you do when you’re young:
Think of the old as falling or fallen, quiet,
Welling with occasional tears.
I had no idea the body, aging, garrulous
Takes up an instrument without the heart’s permission
Fiercely keeping warm…
S.K.
Planet of the Blind 