The Flute

It comes from aging cedar long and narrow path
the flute does sound
a mournful cry

For love and celebrations too it marks the days
of old and new

To see and hear the camps and smell the fires burn while all along
the rise and fall of timbre
fills the air

The flute
so old and pine-full does it not forget the ways of people long ago

I hear the music
in my dreams
and smile and laugh
at loves that faded in the morning light

And when now I wonder where the memories rest
I pray that never is a time that
I shall hear the words
The flute now sounds no more

Copyright 2013, Mitch Battese

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