The Instrument Poem by Matt Mooney

Joe Burke's accordion
yet lying in its box beside us
electrifies our senses in waiting;
when thrown open by the mighty master
and stretched to its first notes
before the frenzy,
its cover of travel stained wood
is forgotten.
Like the birth of a butterfly
music glides free
from the caterpillar of one day
into another
until from below proud eyes
and beard of silver sheen
looking into the pool of our lives
he grows legs tails and heads
to frogs who leap about
within their lives circle
jumping clear into clean air
to live a new life
born for the interpretation of the dance
that dormant lies basely in our brain
all becoming one mind to music
drawing it in fresh
till it touches its home
in the heart of whoever we are
till he himself becomes the instrument
in the session.