She grew almost jealous at the ease

with which his fingers danced across

ivory keys flitting onto flats and sharps

sliding through octaves with music

written once but now only in his head

and heart, traveling through his arms

into those hands to fly like brown birds

spiraling endlessly down the sky

She listened to his records late at night

as she cut through the countryside

half-watching for the yellow eyes of deer

ready to leap onto rain spattered highways

cranked the volume until his melodies

consumed her, traveled through the steering

column into her own hands, up her arms,

into her head, her heart, puzzled how

she, too, could play with passion but needed

in these later years a score from which to draw

music from those taut wires, red felted hammers,

still believed the long-held superstition that

jealousy kills your own music, so tries to content

herself with borrowings even as she thrills

to his runs blurring into silver rain, lets herself be

here where no one can see, just a little jealous.