Child, Cello, Rain, Gisèle Lewis, [2023:41]

The young girl perches on an old oak stump,

hefts a cello, three-fourths her size, and plants
the endpin amid tasseled spring grasses.
Snowflake moths rise and flutter like motes,
hushed and heralding the day’s vibrato.

Arm swanning the bow with trance devotion,
she pours gold among arcos.
The insistent caress of bow upon wire
hums while dove-colored clouds huddle overhead,

and a taut breeze luffs her honey hair.
Her back stays stern with focus, lips parted.
Distant rumbles’ sympathetic resonance and
reverberant heartbeat warn of coming

pizzicato raindrops. Then—crack!
Lightning scours the landscape.
She grips the scroll and shields the fingerboard,
dashes homeward, hooting, small heels pounding,

chased by great cymbals of thunder.