The Cornet Player

THE CORNET PLAYER


No wind. Moss hanging from cypress was still,
The moss’ shadow crossed cow dung
That blazed gold in the noon sun.
The shadow was in the shape of a albatross.
By a log fence, a leaky rowboat
Was transformed into a flower bed,
Inside the rim, black dirt and black violets.
Atop the black, a lady bug opened orange wings.
An old battered bucket beside a cedar
Sent out over the surrounding bare gray ground
A shadow that looked like
A bee and butterfly hovering over a fern.
An old man playing an old cornet,
Paused on the path, asked, “What is the picnic?”
I told him that I did not know,
I was a stranger and was lost.


Duane Locke

Posted over on Badosa