Cellist

You reached and stretched
your arm and hand
in the middle of the symphony
                     a flutter of pale skin
                     against your dark pants
as your hand
brushed aside the
shimmering dust of sound
to reveal
the offering beneath
the music
                      an altar of black-clad bodies
                      muscles strung on stiffening bones
                      a humming bow of breath.

Your tender hand reached out
to limber itself
to try and grasp the music again
as it slid through your
fingers
                       golden rays of sun
                       shaped by the shadow
                       of your hands
                       in prayer;

all are resurrected or all are lost
if one generation
forgets the melody.

You reached back
to the bridge of your cello
as the symphony
sustained the song

eternity secured
for the moment

                       —Mary Beth Kwasek

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