I once heard a poem
about playing piano softly
and how that soft pedaling
defined the poet's life.
And I, in pianissimo practicing,
tucked into the living room,
not disturbing TV viewers
and novel readers,
children playing
and cats napping,
found the echoes of her poem
in my own soul,
my own narrow rejoicing.
I never asked for a copy,
so I can never hear it again,
soft strains in my memory,
an out-loud request too forte.


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