Cello (August)

August’s the way it is, so much undone. From the body of the cello come human sounds our bodies could not make. Depth of forgotten desires. Respite from blur of evil. Unresolved stories, blighted with pain, are tempered with hard sound. Shall the mind ever untangle? Curative sound enters time. Our bodies bear the weight they carry, pulses and breath repeat, remind. Composers listen close, perfect their experiments. Solo cello exists to work and rest with us. Our bodies go to sleep, another waking over. Our bodies rise again, extend, balance. Carrying a cello down the street is another matter.