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.
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