at hand 7/27/19

my hands, 

holding nothing evident, 

play the instrument of life.

this is not the grasp of drum sticks

or the use of fingers 

on a keyboard’s melodious parade.

this is not the finger-tapping of trumpets 

or clarinets

or the feathering of violins

or the deep swirling swings on a harp.

there is absolutely nothing in sinc with breath.

escorted by no apparel as uniform.

just my hands on this instrument of living.

the escort of symphony is all around.

maybe there are page-turns along the way.

but I am not hearing cacophonous, as my sound.

occasional I surely hum the melody, 

quite privately, just heard inside.

at times, it feels like 

there is a seating arrangement

and I have made friends 

with everybody all around.

and yet there are other times 

when it feels like a marching band,

some sort of precision of movement in demand.

apparently some part of me 

knows where to go

and how it all flows,

while I play on,

as the instrument at hand . . .