The Music Maker

The Joy of Music

Oh sweet morning when the saxophone
wakes me like sunshine through honey,
and my bones remember they were made
for dancing, when even my coffee mug
joins the rhythm section, spoon tapping
rim like a tiny jazz drummer gone wild
with joy, and the toast pops up
right on the downbeat!

And bless the subway busker’s battered
guitar case, open like a mouth singing
hallelujah for spare change, his fingers
flying over frets like sparrows, making
Monday morning commuters forget
their destinations, heads bobbing
like buoys in a happy sea, and didn’t
that businessman just skip — yes!
He absolutely did!

And praise be to my neighbor’s daughter
practicing scales on her violin,
each note a small bird testing its wings,
sometimes soaring, sometimes stumbling,
but always reaching, reaching toward
that perfect pitch where music becomes
flight becomes joy becomes prayer.
Even her mistakes are beautiful,
little gifts of trying.

And holy, holy, holy is the moment
when the whole world becomes rhythm — 
dogs barking in three-four time,
traffic lights conducting their own symphony,
wind in the trees playing percussion
on autumn leaves, and my own heart
keeping the bass line steady, steady,
while somewhere, everywhere, someone
is humming themselves awake to love.