The Cellist

The hands are aged now

yet fingers ply deliberate

as the body trembles

Painting happy tapestries

or plunge into darkness

for eyes that are open

but not to see

Only to show

they are watching

Sating fragile conscience

Tenor melodies, bright yet melancholy

record the life that held the same

At even tide

dwindling sun glimmers

Dance across the waters

Evening mists arise

Sorrowful strains from yon banks

ride the fog into the night

Now he sleeps

Echoes remain