Rubinstein Poem by Brian Taylor

Rubinstein in autumnal prime
in 1965
playing Opus 63.
Mazurkas heard by me
though neither Rubinstein nor Chopin is alive!
Elastic strings drawn through time
across eternity;
mind looking through three windows
on an ever-dancing space
(three windows and one face) .

In the evening sunshine of the almost long ago
I see the silent shadow
of the Ford House piano
by an open window.
Three lives touched by music
which has not left a trace.
(three lives and one place) .

The dead
are not really dead
nor the living quite alive.
It’s just that spirit takes on form
and struggles to survive.
Encased in form like glove on hand,
he ceases to remember
and forgets to understand.