whose horn blew once
so strong and true --
where will the music play
when he no longer
has the strength to blow?
The rhythm will live on,
the songs inside his head,
but without breath,
the horn is just a horn;
no life, no spirit spilling into sound.
But still the music lives,
and so it reinvents itself
in smiles and heart, and grace;
a lap to hold a grandchild on
while humming
jazz tunes in her ears.
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