Beloved

Phillip Brown

Alone in the blue
of early morning light,

in the silence of snow
falling
in soft and heavy whispers
falling
onto the lawn, the roof,
the window-ledge,

he holds the dark body
of his cello
like a beloved:

his arms draped over
the familiar curves
of its shoulders, his
forehead resting lightly
on its slender neck.

His eyes gaze
toward the floor, as he
listens
to the gentle breathing
of the instrument,
the song that burns low
like embers,
held within the hollow
of its form.

Then,
sitting upright,
he places the bow deftly
with his pale, long-fingered hand
and pulls its length
across the strings,

a sound emerging
as a cry—
a resonant yearning,
deep and lonesome
that blossoms over his head
and fills the empty room.
And he begins to play,

the music glowing warmly
like a hearth,

rising from the cello
like a heron, stepping
long-legged
up out of the water and
into the air, graceful
wings unfurled;

like a restless wind
sailing out of
a silent temple.

There,
amidst the endless snow,
he plays
for hours,

drawing a hymn
of mourning and
of dreams
from his four-stringed heart.