Mother Dulcimer   Mother Dulcimer, I made you — your fine sweet cherry body, rounded with a woman’s curves, lying in my lap, let your shining alto rise to the song of songs, come to me. The lost music of Xanadu — you know all those sloe-eyed damsel songs, so drink the milk of heaven, let me hear you — in your heart, you know. Dulcimer. I’m slowly dying — we all are. Your countenance is lovely, yes, but I have work to do — let’s sit beside them, the dying, my hands obedient to the moment, your soft low voice the last thing they hear: sing I love you — even if hearing is the last to go.                                                                for Cathy     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont September 2011