The Flutist

The Flutist

Dawn arrives, and brings with her its incandescent bloom
Amidst the brush, a light-footed, playful chirp
Speaks louder than its spruce companions.
I see a flute, but hear a robin
warbling a continuous, flowing whistle.
The gale which it glides upon
Is spontaneous, alive
Refined by the years.

With elegance and grace
It flies, flutters, soars.
It maneuvers through the technical passages.
My fingers are its wings
We crescendo, achieve enlightenment together
While presenting ourselves on stage.
The robin flies with such beauty
Just as the flutist plays with such experience

But existence cannot be possible without either
I disassemble my flute, put it in its case
And the robin flies back into its cage.
Obedient, cared for by the hands of experience.