Mother Dulcimer

 

Mother Dulcimer, I made you — your fine

sweet cherry body, rounded with a woman’s

curves, lying in my lap, let your shining

alto rise to the song of songs, come

to me. The lost music of Xanadu —

you know all those sloe-eyed damsel songs, so

drink the milk of heaven, let me hear you —

in your heart, you know. Dulcimer. I’m slowly

dying — we all are. Your countenance

is lovely, yes, but I have work to do —

let’s sit beside them, the dying, my hands

obedient to the moment, your soft low

voice the last thing they hear: sing I love you —

even if hearing is the last to go.

 

                                                             for Cathy

 

 

© Michael Fleming

Brattleboro, Vermont

September 2011

 

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