Mine sits on a shelf like a beacon,
ruby red with ten holes.
I had one just like this when you lived.
Your memory already clouding
not recognizing the child sitting,
bright eyes fixed on you
and your silver mouthorgan.
You moved it from side to side
fanning melodies into the room
like your reflex to breathe.
You blew your soul through the tiny holes.
I tried to catch each note
as if holding on to them
meant I could hold on to you.
Though decades have passed
since your songs lifted my ears.
The tunes and moments we shared
are the harmony that sustain
and define my origin
in breath blown over tiny reeds.
Much like the wind
that stirs music from trees
and the soil that feeds.
The memories caught in a child’s tiny hand
are the silver streaks of light
that root her to a musical shore
she knows as home,
where she spins
her own magical songs.
This poem is my contribution to Poets United – Poetry Pantry. Join the fun at Poets United