cello

 

 

 

 

 

It rests inside its close-fitting red-velvet-lined case

the way medieval monks slept inside their coffins.

But it doesn't  meditate on death; it has already died,

and barely remembers sunlight, water, the wind among the branches.

It lies there in the dark, feeling all through its graceful curves

the memory of a hundred years of music,

and sometimes dreaming of heaven: the Bach suites.

 

Taken out to be played, it knows that by itself it is nothing,

that it would be incapable of producing a single note

even if it were a Stradivarius.

So it gladly assents to having its strings tightened,

painful though this is; it wants to be perfectly in tune,

stretched to its utmost but not straining.

When it feels ready, it leans back and waits

for the bow to be drawn across,

for the resonance to fill it completely.

 

 

 

 

 

 ~ Stephen Mitchell

from Parables and Portraits