The cello sings music I don’t understand.
In my mind, a bass drum beats
the same rhythm I’ve always known:
low but steady; slow but loud.
Meanwhile there are children,
some of them hum a song of their own
but none see the faces
behind the flowers.
Their colour is irrelevant.
They call themselves family.
Now, there are strangers too
as an audience to the sound.
They remember a time
of gold and blue, but never purple.
Some things just don’t go together.
Never stab chopsticks into a bowl of rice.
And then there sits a wooden box,
it basks in the music that transcends
generations. I’m sure you can recall
a kitchen in harmony was an orchestra in chatter.
Boiling water battled a bottle of soy
on many an occasion.
Now at the conclusion;
the cello needs new strings,
the flowers are out of water
and the kitchen is empty.
That box is filled with memories;
a movie waiting to be replayed.
Its soundtrack is beautiful.