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The delicate line of arm and wrist,
a grace of fingers firmly pressed.
They dance in separate rhythms,
to the lissome music of her soul,
a prelude to the harmony in play.
The violin commands regard,
with a voice, clear, two hundred years
strong, that will sing three hundred
more and then continue on,
imortal as any fragile form can be.
She heeds the call...
the bow glides across the strings,
soft and swift, barely touched,
hesitate ~ then set, rest ~ rest,
down-bow, drawn impossibly slow,
in gentle, sweet caress.
Now, fast and hard, blinding,
in emotions sway, up-bow,
down, up-bow, blur, flying nimble,
rising to crescendo...plunge,
the notes fall out upon the air!
Then are done...
With passion, the notes cried out,
from the very depths of sorrow,
to the heights of joy, to mingle
with such desperate, mortal tears,
as the ones that trail her cheek.
Vibrations linger, and so does she,
wrought in the ambiguity of sound
that is intrinsic to her primaeval love,
still in that beloved somewhere she goes,
when music calls her name.
"I place these moments in my pocket
to be pulled
at the rush of noon,
the crush of three...
when tears come,
when words must learn to be enough..." MKL