This one sings like a diva
Shining body, mahogany red,
responds to gentle hand.
That one, mellower, chestnut brown,
builds to the harmony,
vibrates with each bow slide
and haunts with sweet echoes.
And this one,
slight wolf in the bass,
winks in the filtered light.
An earthy French Cab,
proud of its 1910 provenance
and multitude of past lovers.
Enthralled, I listen
as chords spill out,
each cello its own personality.
Judging merits, critiquing faults,
even though I’ve never played a note.
Your mother loved music,
chose your first cello
when you were 10,
advised you on your second at 12,
knowing a cello would resonate
with your deep, pensive heart.
Now, at 65, in the wake of her departure,
you pluck and bow new cellos,
testing complexity, balance, tone.
I recall decades ago,
a bright Albany Christmas.
Snow gleams in moonlight
as your cello reflects hearth light.
You purse lips, pull back bow and play.
Your mother, long skirt flowing,
glides sure fingers over harp strings.
As the warm air vibrates,
music enfolds us in velvet flames.