I Practiced the Flute Until You Had It Memorized

I preferred not to keep each composition 

lodged in my head. I liked seeing staves

on the page. Anchoring my comfort with the stage.

And I love the stage. The eyes watching not for

mistakes, lovable in themselves, but out of range.

I harbored mistakes I took in vain, trying 

to love the composer enough to render

each measure with insouciant pleasure

relayed from mind to mind. I don't think teachers

knew the bond I had with Hindemith.

His precision without emotion. The motion 

of declarative notes with logical 

flow. The relief of the gone feeling 

of no feeling, our being joined in that way.