A Poem (Sonnet) by Morris Dean
Time was, we carved the cello’s Venus mound,
Composed the music for the melody,
And aged the ocher wood to free the sound
To sing the cello’s heart from memory.
And now we with our son and daughter breathe
The honey’s forest fragrance tongued by bees
From flowers’ lips, and to our kids bequeath
The living golden sweet of our heartsease.
Let’s share the sun-ripe orange of our mind,
And show our kids to bite as we have done
The dulcet fruit within its gilded rind,
To hear the vibrant song our throats have sung.
Music, when soft our honeyed voices die,
Will vibrate in their liquid memory’s eye.