My French Horn And I Poem by Bonnie Shipman

Cold at first, the smooth metal,
The round bell my fingertips caress.
Reflected golden light
And the honey-thickness of color
In my horn- how beautiful!
A smooth sound, sliding up and down,
Calling out souls to sway in time,
Fingers slow dance on three valves
The circle of metal against my mouth,
We make music together.
... the round hum rushing past my fingers
To explore the world’s wideness.
Filled now, no longer cold or lonely,
My horn, you are filled with sound:
The crooning call,
The waking blast,
That one high, clear prayer of a note.
I blow; your pipes are roads for the air-
We make music together.
A lingering note touches the wind.
The light is caught in your gleaming brass
As I lay you down,
Warm from a song well-played.