Sonnet 22

At my piano, my fingers stumble,
on notes of songs I've ignored.
I hear, in the deep, a distant rumble,
measures of melody, words I wore.
For moments I sit remembering,
waiting, a lover on a destined lane.
For hours I sit practicing, listening,
around the corner the clearer refrain.
Because of faith, in moments or hours,
a song I wrote long ago reappears
like in spring with buds and flowers
or a stretching, emerging bear.
Giving credit to beyond what I know
memory may be part of my piano.