Daily Practice

by Elizabeth Oxley

My piano teacher says to relax

my fingers. Loose, their bones

curve around the palm, protecting

its center, drawing power

from softness. The music

lies there. Deep in forests,

streams sing across rocks, and coyotes

sustain long notes. On streets,

it's hard to listen past the news:

people picking weapons

instead of flowers, fights

instead of strings. I've heard

of angels in our atmosphere,

spotted by pilots above Earth's rim,

where blue turns fragile.

Could you hold us? I want to ask them.

Just for a while, until we learn

how to use our hands.