The symphonia on my knees,
Keys singing Machaut under my fingers.
The old song had lingered
On parchment for six hundred years,
I sent back, played it awake.
Eased the sound over the crowd
That hovered in the air,
And held them there.
I said: This dance comes to us
From medieval Italy, a long way,
The Salterello means a Jumping Dance.
If there’s anyone here from Italy,
Or somewhere else,
Inclined to jump as I play,
Please do.
The dance sprang to be heard,
Like the first flower of May,
First passerose,
The children clustered
Around the stage like a garden.
I bent my head low,
Listening for the sound
And threw it back.
At the first puncta, gaining speed,
My fingers curved like oil over water.
Then I looked over
Where the sound unfurls like light;
There, my twin angels,
She dark-curled, he close-cropped blond,
And neither more than four years old,
Were bouncing up and down like reeds,
Drinking in the light,
And when they knew I saw,
They jumped up farther,
Higher than before,
Shouting to me:
Amor mi fai danzar.