Paper Keys

At six, your hands had work enough to do,

Yet on a sheet you drew my keys in white and black.

You touched them lightly; nothing answered back.

Still, in that quiet room, the music grew.

You brought me words you could not speak,

And played the sounds your paper could not make.

When hope was tired, you kept it wide awake,

Returning to the notes you dared to seek.

Then came the day my keys could answer you.

Beneath your fingers, silence turned to sound.

You listened as the notes rose all around—

The song your patient hands already knew.

Little girl, it’s me. Through all these years,

You’ve trusted me with secrets locked away.

Your fingers found me after each long day;

I learned your laughter as I learned your tears.

You say I helped you find your way.

I think of paper, and those hands of yours.

Before my music opened any doors,

You gave my silent keys a voice each day.