By Janna

Your fingers shake at first,

perched like an eagle on a cliff,

waiting to swoop down

and begin its journey.

But you are too timid.

The audience looks on.

A 1 and a 2 and a 3 and a 4…

Your fingers descend

upon the black and white keys.

Your relentless eyes are focused,

intensely watching every

move your hands make,

though you know

the piece by heart.

From so-and-so's twelfth sonata

(the program proclaims)

movements numbers three and four.

Allegro and largo.

Meaningless descriptions.

How about instead

Springtime in April,

The Death of My Niece,

Largo a.k.a. Exhaustion?

Maybe then your fingers

would play what your

heart is telling you to,

instead of just punching out

the perfect notes.

Maybe then when you play

you would evoke something

besides yawns and blank stares

from your audience.

Maybe then you could actually

call yourself a musician.