The Flute

January 8, 2010
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The Flute

It is the whistle of a little bird
It is the ever-changing fish’s skin
The flick of your tongue when you free a word
The unspoken dreams kept safely within

But her laugh only sounds hollow and old
The snow that has fallen clotted with rain
Days a book of stories already told
The joy of summer an old man with a cane

When doing nothing feels no longer pleasant
When I’m a bloom stuck to earth by my root
When fragments of past make me curse the present
Those are the days when I pull out my flute

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