Query any poem you want.

My brother touches music with his hands.

He slowly shapes the chords with gentle palms

and smoothes the rigid edges. With a nudge

of one brown finger, he imprints himself

in songs of lakes and forests, mountains, stars,

and he is suddenly a part of all

the things that are important. He creates

without a word, his legacy of sound

beginning with a single note. It rings

across the morning stillness of our house

and tells a thousand stories, molding earth

into a happy, tragic heaven for

an instant. Others come together then,

a symphony of possibilities,

my brother smiling, sculpting rhythms in

the images of faces, people, love.

The world will know my brother when he goes

as one would know the passing of a breeze:

one moment cool, refreshed, and filled with hope,

the next, an ache, an emptiness, a loss.