Goldfinch60

The Piano.

I sit on the seat in front of it,

Lift the lid and there they are,

Eighty-eight of them

Looking at me expectantly.

There are white ones,

Fifty-six of them,

Black ones,

Thirty-two of them.

They all stare at me,

Wanting me to touch them,

To press them down.

I press one,

And a note sounds,

That is fine.

I press another one,

A little harder,

And a louder note sounds

But it is not music.

Music comes from the soul,

Through the fingers,

To create wonderful sounds,

On this mechanical instrument

Of hammers and strings.

I try and play it,

And can get tunes from it,

But they fall into insignificance

When the masters play,

The Piano.