Clair De Lune
I would practice each day without satisfaction,
longing to capture the moon's oratory.
DeBussy, God, help me, I should say that I'm sorry!
Though my fingers were nimble, I'd lose concentration,
and fumble along with a grumble and sigh.
Provoking the chords, that should tumble and rise
into a glorious, exquisite river of mist.
But, when thumbs went adrift, beyond the abyss,
I'd return to the first bar, and start once again.
-
I'd retrace every note of the measure and time. And time after time,
I'd assault a B-flat, where a C-sharp should chime.
All my hopes and my schemes came from this longing to please.
My dreams to succeed, and to offer this gift.
To grant her the wish.
The rapture, to swoon, as I played 'Clair de Lune'.
My mother's favorite. -- And I aimed for the moon
__
I remember my mother with dishes piled high,
soap on her nose,
calling out from the kitchen.
“That time, much better!”
Or my dad, in the dark room, Walter Cronkite, his companion,
calling out from the shadows,
“I think now, you've got it!”
Tonight in the dim light,
I'll watch how the moonlight,
slides over the piano, sliding over the keys.
It seems that the moon knows,
that time cannot stand still.
That years come and the years go.
But the tune, is the same tune, and the moon is the same moon.
And DeBussy still winces in the place I called home.
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