i can still see it
in my mind’s eye:
the rippling hues of gold
and rich red, earthly tones
of brown, the russet of
maple leaves, the neat
lines of shadows, crossing
across the back, like
stripes, the way the neck
is colored like sand, the
way the scroll curves
i know the way
the pegs are dark, they
stay positioned in their
stagnant place, with
swathes of hazel, how the
strings of silver stretched
taut over the valley of black
pulled over a resilient
bridge, the color of limestone
and weathered dust, i know
the different colors
like fishing lures, the tail piece
and how my beautiful instrument
dug into the soil, cupped
in the cusp of that delicate balance
as sound reverberates
like a thousand flowers, unfurling
the white hairs bound in
a ribbon, they leave my hands
sticky with rosin, the color
of moonstone is waxy, with those
lines of green, i call the tidal waves
the ebb and flow, the sweet
songs that erupt from this
you cannot imagine how sweet
my Autumn sang, in the darkened room,
all those times ago, before
the season shifted, as it always does,
and i nestled her back into
her platinum mold, and i
click seven out of the nine
locks shut, and push her coffin
into the dusty closet, where
no light shines, and i
apologize, but it is only this way
that you can remain unchanged,
frozen in time, like a butterfly
trapped in a bead of amber.