The Flute Player
Lately we have not spoken about
how you will play the flute, and how I will listen.
Your breath as music enters my still heart
bursting like a universe of joy spreading ripples.
There are things I like to tell to emptiness
like giving birth to secrets.
The monologue sound of your name rolling
in intimacy of my tongue, my breath.
The long forgotten story of the deer
that opens its almond-eyes and spills baby-suns.
Your cradle, the beetle-leaf space of your lap
built by your immense ivory thighs.
It’s late in the day, and lately I can hear you play
the flute in wilderness. Somewhere you have found yourself,
and somewhere else I found you too.
You move between mountains like voluptuous shades
and ride through the valleys to the edge
where the sun sprouts again in warm, golden scape.
It’s late in the day and I sit in silence,
lately I can hear you play the flute, at a distance.