by Michael Deqel

Created on: October 07, 2007

Resurrection

On the third day the mist cleared.
You and I paddled out to where the echoes fell back,
the echoes fell back, fell
back to us by the lily pads.
I had Al's tenor recorder, he his wooden flute,
in another canoe, floating, not too near.
You raised your voice to the echoes,
let them dance back, dance back,
back to us.
Al played his flute, I drummed on the canoe,
you picked up Al's recorder and
cherished its sound.
Once,
my father picked up a recorder
and
smashed it, under! his feet, jumping! up,
up and down, shouting! shouting.

Shouting, I counted the days from those shouts,
from the first day, when the recorder fell
to splinters of wood, that day
I thought I'd never wake from

Until the echoes, the echoes of remembering,
remembering, bounced across the water,
and like the holy sound you made,
faded

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