Gallop Rhythm

Really.  MORE angst from my early twenties.

I see you, head tucked to read
the hurtle of the chords
(curls whisking over like
the forelock of a colt),
and bolt my best judgement,
singing after your shoulder, afraid to falter,
hobble-handed jade.
 
You played.
 
Lightly, life rides you to spirited movement
breaking my wind in accompaniment
your fingers outrunning
the range of my voice
 
Your fingers, long and limber
as a yearling's legs, pummel out crescendo,
leap the black bars
with accidental grace
pace time with the patience of inward recognition
that you, yourself are the rhythm
the joyous dressage of hand over hand.
 
No bit of criticism
reins in enthusiasm;
Your unbridled delight
runs off with my breath.