there is a house
on a quiet hill
far from my home
where i ventured
while walking
earlier this evening
an old house
with a neglected garden
weeds ten feet tall
but a vibrant peach tree
flesh-colored fruit
amidst yellow dandelion
i did not know
whose house this was
but i gazed
at the dusty windows
hoping for a glimpse or a glimmer
of open eyes or parted lips
or a curious look on a human face
but not a shadow
or the mist of a breath
came from this shelter
though i searched with my eyes
but i heard in my bones
the softloud music
drum of black and white
piano... forte
streaming from a window ajar
quivering on the autumn air
crescendo
diminuendo
d.c. al coda
and it was not for
eyes
or lips
or human face
to anoint my soul
but rather for fingers
to leave me trembling
in the wake of
their holy hammer
