Page 52 of Into the Heartless Wood
a tall thing, coming nearly to his shoulder.
He says: “It’s called a cello—it used to belong to my mother. Shall I play it for you?”
I say: “Yes,” though I am not quite sure what he means.
The cello fascinates me.
Its body is made of a shiny wood
that seems to honor the tree
it once was.
It is curved and beveled, taut with strings.
He takes a stick from the box,
then perches on top of it,
puts the cello between his knees.
He draws the stick across the strings.
Music blooms on the hill.
I am transfixed.
He plays
the heart of the wood.
He plays
my heart.
Dew
runs
down
my
cheeks.
I feel the music inside of me,
engrained in sap and bark.
It swells like thunder,
whispers like leaves in a stream.
It is rich as honey, as earth.
He sways with the music.
The cello is
