The Prodigy

He played the piano with

All the grace of a ballet dancer

All the passion of Beethoven’s Fifth.

His fingers danced

Upon the keys,

Whose ivory chuckled with delight

At his most gentle touch.

 

The notes that came from

Somewhere beyond his soul

Shivered in the air above his head

And tears formed in the eyes

Of all in the gathered throng.

 

But, at seven,

He was

Much too young

To understand this fallen angel’s song—

Merely gloried in the music

That tickled in his fingers on the keys.