A wintry instrument played

There's something about this time of year that brings out the poetic in me. It's probably too much time alone; walled in to stay out of the frigid outer elements. The world blanketed in white doesn't interest me as much, so I retreat into my mental den and explore the more colorful recesses of my imagination.

This is a poem that was inspired by an actual dream I had several years back. I think it touches on the time-worn urge of all story tellers to communicate something within themselves to the outside world — be it an experience, mood or sentiment. Sometimes our moments to shine forth are brief, so we need to make the most of them.

I'll be back to my more prosaic musings shortly ... so don't tune me out just yet.

Hollow Reed
By Francis Scudellari

Before me, it floated;
An instrument, unknown …
Not flute, nor horn, but reed
Of sorts, perhaps, or not;

Plated, gold, its metal
Thin, delicately stretched;
Mouthpiece of hammered face,
Regal, familiar, mine …

Features older, wiser;
I sensed it waited, long
Expected, my breathed wind;
On dreamed steps, I approached;

Fearful, hands shaking, held,
Hesitated, seconds;
Thoughts sensing, knowing, it
Seized doubt's moment, read me …

Reached into my lungs, pulled
Out, my soul, billowing
Fog, poured from hollow pipe,
Sounding ten, twelve sharp notes …

Rising up, freed, it climbs,
Dissipates, with others,
Cloud-carried, unfinished
Songs, short, sad melodies.