What’s Written is Not Always What’s Heard

Once dressed in green, no hopes
fly south; instead they burn
their orange prayer flags.


The mallet and the string,
the shawm and the oboe. The single
reed that stirs when the water stirs.


And the cornets of brass, bright
relatives to the sickle: its rusted
bronze curve leaning against the wall.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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