hands open
hands close
hands give expression to the soul

and if I lose the use of mine
what value then will be my life

so I shall play arpeggios while I can
broken chords
like spokes upon a wheel

none of these notes mean a single thing
but bring me joy

if temporary
all things are temporary

except for one

lake placid in the fall

when mobility goes
the mind becomes an ocean
frightening at first
but with practice
growing placid

lake placid in the fall
somewhere I had never been before
till last night
as I lay helpless
upon a hard wood floor