Rosin and Strings, by Tricia Knoll

Here in the wool-gathered sky
cast in overtures of ash,
I am the cello, fingered
low moan of moving tone,
my strings vibrate
as dogwoods leaf out
and the river swells
from this puzzled rain.

I am the cello
lamenting the dead
eagle, the too-old dog,
the woman and her guitar,

resonant with living
breath that titters the puddle
and juices the bullfrog,
a moving bow
that sways the whole.

***
Tricia Knoll writes poetry and haiku, tends a native plant garden, dances, and writes letters to editors on social justice issues. She has degrees in literature from Stanford University and Yale University. Her poems appear in many journals including, recently, About Place Journal, Windfall – A Journal of Poetry of Place, VoiceCatcher, Stone Highway, Stone Path Review and Wordgathering – A Journal of Disability Poetry and Literature as well as three anthologies. She contributes regularly to New Verse News. She has a slight voice irregularity – and hums and sings every chance she gets – while working on a book-length poetry project related to “her tulip throat.”