Cello
By Paula Friedman
“Now you’re the fourth writer
we’ve had. Oh, blackberries? Yes,
a young man brought them, only
a child—his mother let him
bring them and …” Outside
the store, among these flowers, yellow
white pale purple paler
pink, red over there, round pears gleam
on shaded, scent-damp
ground beneath
these trees. There, orchard rows
beyond that flagpole
(red, blue, ugly) march
rank on rank like soldiers
traveling eastward to a distant hill
while here a woman, off behind
the shed back of the outhouse
past the store beside the
guesthouse smoothes her
sweaty jeans and climbs into the truck.
Remember, always, there is more,
and not just in the too-far-distant
peak so white above or in
these gleaming flowers’ light.
For what there is
what this is,
is the cello, singing in 100 ways;
what this is, is the cello,
in this stillness deeply crying love,
and our entire valley
but an overture,
our universe, community, love life
no difference,
in this clear light singing whole.
Paula Friedman is an award-winning published author, professional editor, and exhibiting photographer who lives near Parkdale in the Upper Hood River Valley of Oregon. She teaches writing through Hood River Adult Education. See her fiction, poetry and photography on her website: www.highlightscommunications.com.