Rachel Franklyn
The musician, the master, and the maple

The musician taps the microphone
humming electric across the dimmed concert hall.
This evening’s violin piece
should evoke the forest at midnight
but instead she plays
a thousand hours of practice
tendons in her forearm blooming
her own plucked strings.
Specks of rosin fly from the bow
honey-amber kissing the stage.
See her head hung in supplication
offering the husk of new joy for the glory of precision
a hummingbird dipping deep into chipped plastic for
a memory of sweetness.
The master lines up each pattern
shaping a Stradivarius replica
museum-worthy
an echo of an echo
like a whisper through cold crinkling leaves.
His hands will birth this reincarnation
though their veins jump as roots after rain.
He hollows the maple block
into an empty garland
carves the sides to thorn-points
fingers splayed over the contoured ribs
crowning each spiral in golden varnish
awaiting the first note of an old voice.
The maple stands in the forest
tipped in new buds
shivering with possibility.
Soon her fruit will fly on whirligig wings
off to new kingdoms
and the light she devours will fade
hunger rippling orange across her leaves.
The animals will arrive
to dig inside and steal seeds
to drink deep and cut down her limbs.
Tonight, in the stillness
she listens to the cicadas sing for her.
Under the moonlight,
a sigh
and they all bow together.

Rachel Franklyn is excited to return to poetry after years of mostly creating short fiction. As a teen, she placed in slam poetry competitions despite never writing slam style poems. Her work appeared in Johnson County Library’s magazine Elementia. She currently lives in Baltimore, analyzing data for new healthcare models by day. By night she enjoys concerts, Star Trek themed D&D, giving unsolicited opinions about Shakespeare, and teaching at her synagogue.