Oboe Poem while on-call

(Disclaimer: I know that "poem" is a presumptous label. I am well aware that most of us are a far cry from W.H. Auden or Elizabeth Bishop. But poems don't always have to be good, do they...? Although then maybe they shouldn't be called poetry, but just scribbling...)

The Double Reed

The world in which I rest is vast
a passage, mysterious
sonorous and dark.

It cracks in extremes
when tensions seen and unseen
are high. I am tiny
and fragile in its grasp
wedged well into
my tiny place.

A source of breath
I cannot see
blows through, and walls
that hold me in
now resonate
and set me free.

A song unfurls
like a sail
I tremble, never
more alive; I fill
with longing and with hope
that my home for a time
will be changed
while I'm here

from a silent to a singing thing
an ordinary object all at once
made dear.