My kindred are the instruments
For sweetest music-making–
The nature of their character,
A present for our taking.
The strings within the orchestra
Are sea glass for the ears.
They ring, reflect; they laugh and cry
With smiles and then with tears.
The brass, a welcome lighthouse great,
Is pointing out the way,
With pride and power leading on
And strength for each new day.
The woodwind section fills the air
Of inner, outer space,
As sounds of singing harken back
To fragile antique lace.
A booming blizzard from the drums!
It rattles rafters high!
Our hearts quicken in unison,
Uniting rhythms rhyme.
My kindred are plum perfect
And do a job well done!
They teach that through diversity,
In truth, we all are one!
My response to Linda Kruschke’s
Paint Chip Poetry Prompt #45: Kindred