Eric Ashford Poet Free verse

Lakeside, the Music Plays On

The lake has its own orchestrated acoustics.
The quaking of oboes and the bassoon-ing honks
of a skein of geese 
conduct a loosely scored morning air.

Rustling reeds chime in fluted stems, 
a wind section throats through its hollow notes,

and then there is you.

you who hesitantly strum 
within each lip-breathing earshot

nevertheless

your strings are tuned high
to the vibrating moment.

All this ‘a cappella’ is inside you now
like a chick cracking though its own eggshell.

You look around your shoulders
searching for the composer
see nothing, only a naught that imagines
paused fingertips above a keyboard.

Will you sing now or depart unfinished?

The ensemble of the assembled
has left.
You can try again
when your inner metronome
is less bolted to its mechanical tongue,

but for a time
harmony nest elsewhere.

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