Of all his music papa played Mexicali Rose the very best.
Now the saxophone lies on a high shelf in the dark of the closet.
The last notes are departed, the reed split, the keys are stuck in old times.
Yet, I sometimes hear those slurred notes in the wind, in the wide cave of night.
Someday he'll take it up again, and then every earthly thing will change.
And all my dreams will be aroused to his slow music, a long lost voice.
.
Image: www.mexicali-rose.com
11 comments:
A beautiful poem - especially poignant to me as we have an old saxaphone put away, its music silenced everywhere but in our memory.
Lovely :)
This is gorgeous.
Lovely! The sentences flow so well and the images are poetic.
loved it - a story without one wasted word
What a wonderful story to tell using American lines...beautiful.
This is really beautful and touching. Plus, you use verbs really well in here.
Lovely sentences strung together to create a poignant poem.
I love the long lines. A beautiful poem.
Lovely, it brought the saxaphone right to mind - my favourite instrument
Marvellous post!
The echoes of the past, this is beautiful, Joyce.
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