Classic Poem

You
With the flute,
Inclined
To lie
By the Gunpowder
Hills,
Strike up
A mood,
Attune us
To rain
To the wet earth
Colors,
Win us
A smile
From blue
Skies.
We are
These many generations
On fire.

You
Who
Play
The flute,
The relief I crave
Is not
At home
In all that is the case,
My body, kindling
To fire
More intimate
Fires

You
With the flute,
I pray—
This palette
Dulls to dusk’s
Ends,
Do not
Play
Time’s fool,
Do not
Strike up
A mood,
Attune us
To the burning
Colors,
To new
Fire.