The Pianist

Music, as clear and bright as springtime rain, blossoms in the longing optimism that one day a flower will grow this late in the season. Surrounded by a cascade of the most delicate droplets of rain, each a new note singing out beyond the garden. There isn’t a cloud in sight.

It is in that garden, fresh with silent spring grass, that the pianist lies beneath the music, waiting for a soloist to call to him above the voices of the choir; a flower to stand over the grass. He waits for a mistress to call to him; the perfect aria to blossom the music beating in his soul. He waits there in a long, dramatic pause as the rain fades out and the world stops singing.

The musician, the pianist’s hands remain empty, his fingers still and his heart beating with anticipation.

The sun continues to shine. Another springtime without flowers; a choir with no soprano. Around here, there is only love, beauty and springtime. The dregs of Winter and long, drawn out shadows have long melted.

To this day, I still don’t know why the flowers don’t grow.