Sonatina

light fading
at the tunnel’s end
I slip away
down the fluted passage
inside a singing reed

longing
to open the clear wings
of music
I breathe into my flute
a flight of butterflies

the murmur 
of wind-turned leaves
before a storm—
the soft cry of a mourning dove
echoes in my flute


~Skylark 2:2, Winter 2014