My entry into music wasn't heroic. It was awkward. I was a left-handed child taught to play the violin right-handed. I wanted the piano; instead I learned the feeling of being misaligned with an instrument. In time, I put the bow down.

The sound stayed, it stayed as rythm in language, as an ear for the pressure a line exerts when it stops early. Much later it returned as songs, words first, then notes. These pieces are written in narrow windows, between meetings, between obligations, when the mind finally hears itself. I return to the language of restraint: Szymborska's precision, Cummings' angled playfulness. Clarity carries more weight than drama.

I don't explain what a song means. I place an image, a turn, a small truth that doesn't announce itself. If the lyric holds, it holds without persuasion.

I write for voices not yet heard.