When Lily plays the cello, it is holy.
Like lavender that strays from garden walls
and necklaces of evergreens that slowly
curl across the meadows, along the halls
her wreath of somber notes is softly borne.
She wings the bow; I hear my mother’s voice,
recall a lover’s crying flame. I mourn
and then, with silent chanting tongue, rejoice.
Each memory is coaxed aloud across
a grassy bottomland of time, the marrow
and the porous pith revealed. The loss,
half-opened flowers, flutters of a sparrow.
She plays the cello, slowly €”and the night
becomes an aperture of grace. All lowly
thoughts swirl into quiet, purple light.
When Lily plays the cello, it is holy.
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For more of Karen’s poetry and her bio, go here, here, here, and here.