It's not a lack of talent
Or lack of love.
I'm passionate about Bach, Beethoven, Beiderbecke, the Beatles.
I can hit all the notes.
I can wail like Hank Williams
And make the strings sigh like Vaughan Williams.

It's simply that I can't stay up late.
At nine p.m. I start to fade,
Even if it's summer and the sky still lit with gold.
By the time musicians gather, I am drifting into dreams.

I wake up at five each morning
And even though in winter I relish snuggling under my warm quilt
By six I am up and dressed,
walking to the pond
To watch steam rising from the water,
Listen to the trills of my resident phoebe,
The bass fugues of frogs.
Why can't I play music like that?

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Michael Wright lives in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada.