Horns

The trombone is graceless

Bulky. Low. No apparent keys!

You had to just know where to place your fingers

To get that note.

Always an accent. Forever an accompaniment.

Wait! A brass and horn solo —

Damn. She’s quickly drowned by the others.

That’s why i resented playing that damn trombone;

It was everything I was.

Why couldn’t I have been the flute

With her proud, gentle song

That pranced across spring meadows?

Or, my favorite, the piano

88 keys to my soul, painting dreams or sorrows.

Now I see it.

The trombone isn’t bulky.

She takes the space she needs

Unapologetically.

Nor is she low. She’s beneath, weaving the thread.

Delicately holding the needle

That decorates time as it hits your ears

Consolidating melodies with her constant presence

And if you don’t know where her notes are

Then you’re not giving her the attention she deserves.

She is sleek in your hands, and bold in her crown.

Maybe it’s time I learned from her.