My Mother Played Piano

My mother played piano
On Sunday afternoons.
With a straight back
And feather-light fingers,
She sang the sound of my childhood.
Like doves freed from cages,
Melodies moved from room to room.
In summer, notes travelled
Through open windows.
I bathed outside in sun and song.
I often watched her from the doorway;
Head slightly tilted to the left,
Arms poised like a swan’s wings,
Rays of sun through the bay window;
Gold on auburn curls.
A select repertoire of five pieces,
Each one as sweet as the last.
She sang the sound of my childhood.
She filled my days with song.

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