Perfect Fifths

Imagine you're the violin your mother 

loved and hated playing. Tuned in perfect fifths. 

The finger stiffness accompanied her 

talent. Riffs more desirable than rigid 

on-location prompts and requirements akin 

to coloring inside the lines. Her nemesis

on strings was one better than she, 

my mother claimed. I did not believe her.

I could not imagine anyone 

more passionate and precise, whose shoulder

ached from intention and habit plus, of course,

performance, a constant thing. I gleaned

from Mother that desperate focus, knowing

that in music there is no choice 

except to excel. Becoming 

an instrumental wonder constrained the soul.

That's what I told myself when I gave up

the flute as the center of my life 

and reputation. As I turned the page, 

I turned to simple Mead notebooks

and Bic pens. I loved their portability 

their pop-up properties that allowed me 

to spin straw to gold at will. Imagine

being that instrument at last let go.

When I first held my Artley flute fresh from

its light tan leather case with dark brown markings,

I spoke to the instrument, saying, "We will

go places together." That seemed the polite

thing to do. And so I spoke those words,

then later when I could no longer handle

being consumed by the exclusive lane 

of musical prowess, I just up and left.

I heard music in speech, seized what lived between

those perfect fifths. Even microtones 

thinner than the usual chromatic 

distances between. Music that could be seen

on the page after careful and considered 

listening.