Analysis of Playing Piano

Are these hands really mine, that flow
Like heated honey over wood
And ivory, sounding high and low,
Their will their own, as if they could

Play on all day? As tips of fingers
Stroke the keys, mellifluous,
The music rises, crests and lingers
In mind's ear, a gift to us,

The empty room and me, a swirl
Of color bursting from these few
Small chips of black and white, a world
Of harmony, where all is new,

Where hands create life's serenade
Until its last notes finally fade.