Terry Beltramo grew up in Columbus, GA, in a neighborhood that had once been a pecan orchard. Her mother would read to her often. Words came naturally to Terry who wrote her first poem at age seven. She earned a degree in English and Creative Writing and still finds time to write when her inner voice speaks. Her key to good writing comes from three words – Read, read, read. Terry now calls Chattanooga, TN, home, and every fall, the rich smell of burning leaves still transports her to those innocent autumn days and the smoky sweetness of ash-roasted pecans.
The Reed Flute
You will know the difference
when you hear the music,
for notes have a way of clinging to the wounded wood,
remembered, like the green scent of crushed ferns
in spring forests,
and when the piper plays
his breath is wind in the wood
and the wind is the ache of the old scar
that bled fresh on ancient hills
where dark-haired girls danced for Aphrodite,
and the wind is a wreath of yellow flowers
woven like winter stars through the bare branches of willow
where its song echos like the shadow of water
over smooth stones in a dry creekbed,
and the echo ripples out in ever-widening circles
as remembered, as forgotten
as the blade
that made the wrinkle in the reed.