His fingers cold and thin as icicles
Dancing and rolling on ivory keys
His hands weathered like the hulls of vessels
His hair aged white like masts in salted sea
His music rolling like ocean up to shore
Rising and diving like tides under the moon
Crashing crescendos like waves against rock
Coming alive with each thunderous boom
As his ivory keys fall into place
Echoing across every sea and space
— Jacob Moore
The Coop: A Poetry Cooperative 