O Missy,
I never met you
nor did I ever see your face
or hold your hand,
but I've met your dad
and see you in his teardrop eyes,
and each time the wind does blow
I hear your voice
in that haunting drone of oboe,
that hollowed pipe,
whose reed so painfully wondrous
you chose to breathe
and now waft the winds of every moon lit night
and daytime sorrow with your allusive breeze,
and so in scourging ache
as we both articulate
our poignant yearnings for that other place
that act like crampons, anchors for our feet
on the slippery slope of sorrow,
we journey upward to see you
upon Mount Hermon's haven height
each stony step chiseled in
our bleeding hearts of flesh.
Yes, we are coming, dear Missy,
but could we ask for just one thing?
Impatient fathers,
we do not want to wait for Day,
so would you ambush us along the way
and play for us, brothers one
before we are reeled up, received
and welcomed to see,
please besiege us with your symphony
and we, like Peter, lost in transforming joy
will long to tent
and remain with you there.
O oboe breathe
again for me!

Brian Morgan, 5-27-1999