At The Piano

To think of ivory piano keys -
That are yellow by clammy fingers stained,
Interspersed by interruptions in ebony -
Is to wonder how many before me remained

For hours, wandering aimlessly
Up and down this path of white stones,
Composing endless apologies:
For missed notes, for fumbling arpeggios.

So many of them had hardly been trained -
Like me, they managed to fake their way through,
And in earnest, what is it we have gained,
But a collection of melodies that barely we knew?

A lifetime spent searching for some ephemeral Grace -
Which few but those blessed can aspire to trace.

- Siri Hammond