fall 2015 / Poetry 2015 / Uncategorized / Volume 46

Making Music—Tanner Brossart

To her, it was playing a violin,

Sweet sinews like stretched strings

And the bow ready in her grasp.

The cascading melodies she made

Part serenade,

Part nocturne.

 

To him, it was a ceaseless rhythm.

Each drip was a tap on the snare drums

And the trails left behind were a cruise

Down a ride cymbal—

Even if the instrument was really

Just the bathroom’s porcelain sink.

 

To everyone else,

Their song was a red elegy

Recorded on the staff

Note by hand-carved note.

 

But to them

It was simply making music.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s