On listening to my son playing the piano – poem for NaPoWriMo

Somehow, the notes fall into silence,
or rise, and somehow you are still,

and you are never still, you squirm and wriggle,
fingers tap-tapping, always on the edge
of movement, and yet now those fingers
draw the image of the music
on the keys, and the notes rise,
or fall, each in its own sphere of silence,
bubbled in stillness, and your hands –
muddy in my memory, waving sticks –
move delicately, are the thing
that calls out the silence, and the music,

and somehow the notes rise into stillness,
or fall. And somehow you are silent.

Day 22 of NaPoWriMo and we are asked to write poetry about creating another art form. http://www.napowrimo.net/day-twenty-two-5/n