My Airy Flute
Though at first you burnished my silver,
furnished evidence
of permanence -
proof that some metals are pure -
that could not endure.
I needed more, the absolute;
absurd demand, you, convolute
rebuked my crude demand: astute
danced delicate around my airy flute -
ignoring its truth.
Mute now, my airy flute:
only created to mark joy -
important joy, not trivial.
Dismally you failed to sense
this wasn’t just about incense
Or other trivial scents or smells:
and you stamped down on my airy flute,
shutting off its slight tinny music -
and what was far worse,
squashing it out of shape.
So that it could never play again.
