POEM: The Cello

The Cello
for Lisa

Who would believe
that a pernambuco,
the mane of a horse,
a million synapses,
and a gallon of blood
could produce a
sarabande by Bach?

We’ve become so used
to this alchemy
that the miraculous
has become mundane,
background music for a
wait at the dentist.

Until that moment
when this mixture of
wood and wonder
reminds us that the human
voice once soared above
unspoiled plains,

once called up the sun,
sang down the moon,
infused our lives
with a force more powerful
than the tree or the horse
or the blood.

Alone on the stage,
the cello resting softly
against her thighs,
the sure song of her bow
calls us back to a time
when a quiet melody
by the cradle
was the world’s only sound —

when to be alive
was to sing.

4 November 2012
Auburn AL

/ / /

I wrote this poem as a gift for my friend Lisa to congratulate her on her recital. I’ve heard a lot of beautiful cello playing these last couple weeks from two different cellists based in Alabama.