In Upper Falls, sings the lower octave, under the violin.
Children start lessons tightly furled
The arm loosens, the bow swings, and the petals begin to unfurl.
The sun shines and the music brings the bees close.
Young heads droop, looking down at fingers on strings.
The light comes on, the cello sings like the angels,
Stroked awake by the firm touch of the rosined horsehair.
Lovely chords, soft harmonies, burst from hidden blooms.
In the morning, practice calls forth the full bloom
And birds sing and take wing.
If I could spend all my time in the wind, sighing in the air
Where the cello sounds divine, I would never be sad again.
Copyright 2013 Brenda Davis Harsham
Dedicated to Debbie Thompson, cello teacher extraordinaire, for all she adds to our lives.