Music Lessons

You can make music
of anything, I am certain.

Leaves in the gutter,
the clay bowl with one

green apple inside
waiting to be bitten.

Even of silence;
the piano’s worn ivory

asleep in the tips
of your fingers.

Not knowing how to move,
I trace your lips

until a mouth exists.
My fingers, hammers

made, then broken
as you, half-remembering

you are not alone in this room
take me in your arms

and when everything is still
teach me to play.