When a superior flutist performs,
I feel the upper regions of my brain
to be refreshed like standing in stunned awe
before rolling white-thunder’s majestic roar
of a secluded, pristine waterfall.
The flute unspools a cool ribbon of sound.
It wipes lines from the worried forehead;
it allows one to forget the body
and all the baggage of its sad defects.
The flute levitates all ten toes to speak.
Whether transverse or fipple recorder,
the bone flute is fifty-thousand years old;
the first sophisticated instrument,
it was the cerebral glory of Greece,
dazzling court jewel of French Enlightenment.
The flautist who put my breath on pause was
Jean-Pierre Rampal at Carnegie Hall,
giant of circular breathing technique,
who could make the brain tremble in delight.
The trilling flute is a soothing healer.
The flute conjures bright bucolic landscape
of hills, rocks, dim caves, streams, and purling rills.
Flute is autochthonous, archetypal,
plaything of a three-year-old child’s birthday.
The healing flute is the child of wonder.