FLUTE

You are a branch

waiting to be played,

waiting to have a breath

blown through you.

Before this 

can happen

Spirit must first

hollow you out

with Time

and Woodpecker

must peck you

full of holes

and then Lightning 

must cleave you 

from Tree

and drop you 

to the ground 

broken and burning.

There you will wait,

cooling in the dirt,

for a pilgrim

to find you.

One day 

one will come

and just when 

they pick you up

a songbird

will fly by 

singing. The pilgrim 

will think: Did the branch

in my hands

make that sound? 

Let me try 

to make it sing

again. And so,

the pilgrim 

will close their eyes 

and pray 

across the holes 

in the branch. 

They will pray 

for the song 

to return.

And it does,

but now without 

the bird.

What are you 

waiting for? 

Pick yourself up 

and play.

Only you 

can sing the song

you are here 

to sing.

You are the branch

and the wayfarer, both.