Dawn presses her blushing face to my window, asks me if I know the records in my record collection look like the insides of trees. Yes, I say, there is nothing you have ever grown that isn’t music. You are the bamboo in Coltrane’s saxophone reed. The mulberries that fed the silkworms that made the slippers for the ballet. The pine that built the loom that wove the hemp for Frida Kahlo’s canvas. The roses that dyed her paint hoping her brush could bleed for her body. Who, more than the earth, has bled for us?
