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Pitch Pipe, by Tom Ewart

Pitch Pipe

Tom Ewart

She is round and burnished,
a once tarnished silver
now polished by my fingertips
to a luminescent sheen;
I hold her gently to my lips,
tip my tongue against her reed,
and breathe;
the sound she makes
is for all my world
the whisper of life awakening
in the silence of my room.
I chime in,
my rusty voice a little flat;
she brings me up to concert pitch.

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