He
made the God of humanity a gift of flutes and strings.
Once
birthed out of the resonant hollow of a seashell,
his
Mediterranean mermaid mother rocked him
in
a Venetian gondola. There he found his
fluty tenor.
He
learned to play off the backs of dainty-footed cupids
and
in time made the squeak of a fiddle sound
as
if it were covered with silky moist seaweed.
If
anyone ever heard the turtle’s murmuring voice, it was he.
While
others were enchanted by epic grandeur,
he
was content with puddles and simple fair weather frolics,
capering
on the tips of his toes.
Not
quite solemn, never a screamer or shouter,
more
the playful vivacity of fish in a pond
or
sainted elves scrambling in the brush.
Or
a sweet bird of an ancient paradise, swooping over the altar!
Listen
for him at the far corner of the cathedral,
never
in the listener’s face or pounding the ear,
calling
to human hearts across the length of years.
Look
again, and he is a troubadour walking on water,
or
a minstrel among the four seasons,
un-beholden
to any lord of the earth.
He
had no sad or tragic tale to tell,
no
purgatory of pain to visit upon us.
All
he had to give was the purity of his form.
Once
summoned by heaven,
he
approached its gate with harp and voice,
dancing
once more with his native cherubs.
For sacred listening pleasure, I recommend Vivaldi’s
Gloria, one of the finest choral works ever composed. For any occasion I suggest The Four Seasons,
my favorite chamber piece, and any one of his six flute concerti.
To read other entries in my
blog, please consult its website: enspiritus.blogspot.com. To learn about me consult on the website the
blog entry for August 9, 2013.
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