Bamboo reeds knock glockenspiel notes
blown in by crests from the shoreline,
rocking flutes, climbing the hill of the wind chime wood,
to the dead doctor's agricultural museum,
where his silence wraps ancient tools,
fat gourds, and earthen pots, flowering from the dust.
A bed, a bookshelf; a lullaby
in the shade of photographs:
farming lives; generations of births,
delivered by his hand.
A canoe, a wicker box,
pistols on the wall,
lines of medicine phials filled with salts,
names for healing, names for killing pain;
safe in this oasis; where walls map
cultural, technological,
and pharmaceutical phases,
a place of history and his healing hand,
and a love feeling, spilling over,
of the man.
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