Flute
Across black canyon’s rim
to the edge of echo,
your life’s numen touches
the silver surface
of sound’s creation, warms
hallowed reed,
forms moontones from caves
of time; firelight,
starlight, the moonlit waters
of your soul shimmer
through your open throat, pulsing
with a songbird’s
sweet vibrato down your neck,
spine, down
through your legs and feet
into the boundless
ground of your mother sound.
Karen Jones lives in Corvallis, Oregon. She enjoys observing and experiencing the world more closely through reading and writing poetry.
