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Vibrations like raindrops

for Robert Martin
by Kevin T. McEneaney
Tue Oct 24th, 2017

The cello resonates like a garden.

Notes linger like strong flower-aromas.

Vegetation is dense, dark green, blue-bright.

Between strokes and chords sunlight breaks cloud-line.

The cello towers like an immense oak.

 

The cello is a museum of time:

past, present, and future all float like atoms

colliding, merging, and bursting like stars

in distant, mysterious galaxies.

Cello, a telescope from the heart!

 

That cello is the music of the spheres,

a fabled beast, mystic in taut sinews,

legendary with immense conjurings

of Apollo, Diana, and Saturn—

axis of world turning on a note.

 

The cello endures tragedy like rain;

it celebrates a moment with wise pluck.

A dark mask with hidden emotions,

it may lead the mind beyond sanity

to an exotic frontier of cedar.

 

Cello peers beyond gravity to joy.

It tunnels into depths of memory.

It may grab your arm, urge you move forward.

Even at rest without a bow nearby,

it may summon your mind to the future.