Wednesday Poetry Break

From today’s edition of The Writer’s Almanac. Beautiful. I wish I could write like that.

Piano

Touched by your goodness, I am like
that grand piano we found one night on Willoughby
that someone had smashed and somehow
heaved through an open window.

And you might think by this I mean I’m broken
or abandoned, or unloved. Truth is, I don’t
know exactly what I am, any more
than the wreckage in the alley knows
it’s a piano, filling with trash and yellow leaves.

Maybe I’m all that’s left of what I was.
But touching me, I know, you are the good
breeze blowing across its rusted strings.

What would you call that feeling when the wood,
even with its cracked harp, starts to sing?

— Patrick Phillips

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4 comments

  1. That is a really exceptional poem with lovely imagery.

    What achingly beautiful lines…

    What would you call that feeling when the wood,
    even with its cracked harp, starts to sing?

    Stunning.

    j.

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