Imagery:
"When I point my fingers at the keys,/the music/springs straight out of me./Right hand/playing notes sharp as/tongues,/telling stories while the/smooth/buttery rhythms back me up/on the left."
"My father was more like the sod./Steady, silent, and deep./Holding on to life, with reserves underneath/to sustain him, and me,/and anyone else who came near."
Out of the Dust