It lies there
Open,
A book, waiting to be played
And its stories told.
A mole
Lost in the dirt
Peeks above the surface
To create hollow holes
For which the wind can give sound to his entire life’s
Song of work.
It’s a magnified scrap of material,
The gaps waiting for a redemption needle
To thread and weave to and fro;
Waiting for pudgy human hands to
Pick and Prod at the string
And temporarily fill in the gaping emptiness.
The reflection of light from its internal prism mirrors
Ocean waves;
There nature as mysterious as a masked moon.
As the air sweeps through the metal chamber,
A vibration releases giving you
The solemn sound of satisfaction;
A living artifact of the past.
A flute from our homeland.
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