The Silver Trumpet

The trumpet sits

gleaming, silent and regal,

waiting for the show

to start,

waiting for the band

to play.

Waiting for the player

to lend some soul

to the brash, brassy voice.

Brassy in sound only,

looking all cool,

refined,

like a silver satin gown.

The player, fingers

flying

down the spine of valves.

He coaxes a raucous,

lively tune from the horn:

Brays, and long, mournful

howls; short

stac-cat-o pops.

When the night winds

down, the tune takes on

a mellower edge. Gliding smooth,

slow, cloud shadows on

a summer field.

Accompaniment to

the singer’s voice,

wending its way,

a bee droning among

sweet new flowers.

Then the night is

over and the silver trumpet,

nearly aglow

from the heat of the music,

rests once

again in perfect gleaming silence.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s