All that's there is varnish and glue
box of wood and strings...a select
few, manipulate these ordinary things.

Timeless, loose strings...in dust it lies,
silent notes...yet does not fade
or rust...awaiting master's hands.

Voices within it growing stronger with age,
strings and bow...It's sweet soul to be
awakened, likened to a budding rose,
of a delicate velvet touch.

Touch of the master's hands worthy
with soul, music befitting the red
assertiveness of heart.

Then far back room...emerges a gray
haired man. Picked up the bow...
wiping the dust from the old violin and
tightening the loose strings.

As sweet as a caroling of angels songs.
He played a melody so pure, so sweet,
wafting air with floating feathered wings.

He looked at me, across the tiny space,
made a bow...I gave a smile back, making
a connection of approval...as artist often do.

Knowing we had briefly shared each other's
art form, as My Life's strings of Poetry
met the Master's Bow.

(c) Life strings, little Violin 21January2011
Vivian L. Dawson