Eugenia Zuckerman’s hypnotic
notes flow through my earphones, levitating
me over rainbow waters of Alec
Wilder’s Air for Flute, our meditating
as one within caressing melody.
Surely these mythic sounds enamor Pan,
recall his search for Syrinx, her body
turned to slender reed, her haunting song fanned
by soft breeze. Surely now I see how ired
pied piper could entrance Hamelin’s brood
to trail him out of town, their psyches fired
with visions of paradise. Did their mood
change, I wonder, or simply stay entranced?
I think I know. I seem to rise and dance.
Roger Armbrust
September 7, 2010
