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The boy cellist bows his neck
over the neck of his cello, his cut-velvet hair catching July light as he plays and sings Henrici Noel’s Lamentatio. His teenaged voice hovers over the chords while fingers pound the stings and his bow arm vibrates the shiny blue of his shirt. Such a paradox this combination of youth and grief; it plucks at my heart like pizzicato, pulling out all the love and loss of sixty years. The cello is a serious business, conjuring sounds from the lowest bass to the highest range of the soprano. All the young faces in their folding chairs moving arms and bodies like a dance, an ancient ritual, where sound speaks in the words we’ve lost, all the words we’ve not yet found.
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Enjoy these poems and short essays on nature and awakened life.Archives
August 2019
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