flute, flutist, music, musician, poem, poetry, rhyme, rhyming, Uncategorized

The Flutist

Ambrosial seeds that sprouted song

entice the plum-pursed lips

gripping for the galaxies

confined to sullen sips.

 

A cup-eared chorus hollers back

to smooth the clods of clay

molded by the penchant of the potters who will play.

 

A honey-suckle sound escapes,

to which the bees reply,

“Had only we a gentry cup

our lot may never die.”

-Amy Struthers

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