I undo the latch and lift the lid. The shining silver horn nestled deep in velvet padding reflects in my eyes. In your flawless mirror, I see my face, serene, yet inspired, by the sight of you. Running my fingers gently along the sleek pipes and curves, I whisper, reaching for you, "Here I am. Now come to me, sweet music." And you eagerly jump into my hands. I close my eyes and purse my lips. Ah! The tone you deliver with my kiss is deep and warm, sending through me a thrill I know well. There, we meet. Song pours into the air and vaporizes. It wraps around us and carries us to new heights, soaring over the valleys and flying above mountains. The notes on the page seek our conformity, but you suggest soul reaching waves of seamless music, and I am penetrated. My heart leaks into the melody and drips from your bell. Your valves obey my every command, and the key is turned. And for a moment, the world is filled with only you and I. On fire. Delivering a steady, artfully fickle rhythm in tones melting and clear. Me and you, my trumpet. No longer compared with the rest of them. But truly, and finally, our own.
My Trumpet's Music
June 22, 2009