Posted in poetry

Spring Recital

Two rows at the front for the recitalists, arrayed roughly by age from sprouts to saplings almost to trees, smartly turned out from head to foot in the fashion of performance, facing — a few feet from them — a deep black and very grand piano that could devour in one gulp a half dozen of the more petite of the performers. A welcome by the maestra, whose house along the boulevard becomes a daily music box for passers-by as her charges learn the ancient lessons that tame fingers for the wizard work of coaxing our other language from a handful of keys. Then, a pianist a bit bigger than a pea shares the bench with the maestra for a four-handed rendition of some fleeting, modest piece, the debut saved by a parent in pixels that might, who knows, be replayed someday with champagne and cakes at a Carnegie Hall reception. Applause, then, and a practiced bow, and a reimmersion of the performer into the welcome enfolding anonymity of the recital hall seats.


I’ve retired after a career teaching law. I divide my time now between Athens, Georgia, in the States and the south coast of Ireland.