A poem for Winchester Nii Tete, a young but master percussionist
by Yuri Kageyama

fingertips
that moment
sound spills
bouncing bubbles of invisible gems
exploding softly from warm antelope skin
sparkling
through the dark air
fragrance of a forgotten African flower
roosters, stripes in squares,
spilling on rolls of fabric unfolding
black on Kandinsky beige,
red on blue,
sound
unseen but seen
no mistake
inside
full
complete
in a single stroke
understanding all
generations and generations speak
sound
simply
by your touch