Song lingers, body shaped by its charms.
The instrument, tarnished and scratched, still distinct…
Soft metal of depth, built from devotion, a loneliness all know, few embrace.
Upon first touch, cold as granite, then melody’s warmth wraps…the air.
Strange kind of ether, a wonder we breathe, sound is the current of the core.
Bending a phrase, the trailing dash of a note, dangling off into chant…
Magic is craft mixed with gift, singed by song, burnt into listening, words that hit inside.
First notes feel the delicacy of fingers, the embouchure fixed
Mouth free into verse.
(Emily Dickinson Series #2)