by Brooks
Lips on reed
fingers on keys and
stringed wood
cradled close.
Breath pushes
slowly through oboe,
bow races, then slows
across receptive strands
each angle discrete.
Wind and fingers swirl
alive a charmed sound
to woo the Gods of peace
back to earth.
©2005 Brooks
Brooks arrived on the last ferry to Lopez Island September 11, 2001. Recently she made another cross-country move, this time to North Carolina. She writes, makes art, does ocean stuff, teaches classes and workshops. She also walks on beaches and among tall trees, collects bones and rocks, and laughs a lot.
All work by Brooks
