Sit down at the keyboard right here To reconstruct the lines of April third. The lines of April third, the lines of April third, To reconstruct the lines of April third. It works that way at the piano sometimes. You think you can’t remember the melody, Then the notes come back to you, Your fingers know which keys to touch You wonder how that melody could stay In some mysterious place for so long. Writing is like a melody, it stays inside you. In a long, rich piece the interplay of thoughts Resembles a symphony, many instruments at play. Not like the simple notes of Mary Had a Little Lamb. Strands of thought weave their own meanings.
Steven Greffenius said:
Reblogged this on Pacific Sunrise.