Sitting Like Fruit

Sitting like fruit, the snowflake decays.
Waiting to melt away, in the dimming afternoon,
laying on the injured window frame.

Within the silent residence,
a piano slowly comes to life,
drowning out the blizzard’s shriek
resuming where it left off one night.

Brittle skeletal hands
press musical breath into the room.
The ivory fingers haunt the ying-yanged keys,
rattling those notes awake.

The remembered limbs work the tones,
bellowing the closed doors with a whistled breeze.
Fighting the freeze that spills from outside,
the aching sounds warm the house with melody.

Then, with a quick click,
unlocking the red front door,
the music went dead,
as I walked into the comatose home
frozen to the bone and alone.