The Truth About Tigers

The notes from the piano
drift out of the den,
curling around the wall
like raindrops tracing
the flaws
of a weathered window.

In the kitchen, waiting for coffee,
they find me,
mixing with the rythmic gurgle
and soft chuff
of the percolator.

I smile,
happy to hear her playing again—
Chopin in E flat major,
a nocturne from the songbook
I gave her for Christmas
two years ago,
secretly a gift
to myself.