( For Oscar Peterson )
Dig this, my man…
Supple, stick-skinny fingers begin their dance;
an elastic waltz of charcoal water spiders
light as eider down, slipping without ripples
on the mirrored face of a cool, deep pool…
A lithe troop of coffee-hued skaters,
turn sensual figure-eights, naked,
on a milk white frozen rink…
start a tight, controlled spin,
accelerate into a dizzy, blurring dervish
of dragonflies, whirling on a pin.
Long slender hands, finger bones articulate
like preying mantis legs, stretching across
octaves to reach a perfectly dissonant chord…
feeling their way blind, until they find
an abstract expression of human joy.
Magic now, the strong, agile digits
become a pulsing line of water bugs, skidding
soft atop a black and ivory stream,
faint as butterflies when they land.
Deft as the knife in a surgeon’s hand.
Heat without hesitation;
no note, no motion wasted.
Dig this, man…
Oscar’s playing jazz.
Oh, Yeass!
