Francine of the meadows and
mountains
plays
a Western Concert Flute,
long
and silver, like a pleasant dream
of
a winding stream that never ends
its
journey to cleanse the wounds of Earth.
Birds
land on the stem of her muse—
students,
teachers, session musicians—
before
taking flight, carrying musical notes
to
tall trees, breezes, oceans, and foreign lands
until
Francine has played for the world.
Her
breath merges with spiritus mundi,
plants
seeds that grow into concept and balm.
They
are the flower in Tennyson’s crannied wall,
the
grain of sand held in Blake’s mystical palm.
They
are this and that, the all in all
born
from the parted lips of Francine,
who
plays distant galaxies and worlds unseen.
~William Hammett
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