You come in quickly out of the summer rain, your hair dripping. You shake it dry, switch on your synthesizer, wait ... You do not see me sitting in the shadow.
Suddenly you begin: your fingers celebrate the keys exploring tones, rhythms, broken melodies ...
As you're playing, raindrops from your hair fall on your hands. Your chords
know I'm listening: in their wet strength, the notes climb slowly to reach the pergola over the window
and come together in clusters. I hear your sound ripen into new strains that sweeten and wait on the vine of your heart.
Now someone is gathering grapes and bringing them to me. I find you sitting smiling
beside me, Kristen. Your hands are motionless - yet all this fresh music hangs between us....