Manifest Passion
How quiet she slumbers
In her soft-tone wood of spruce
Its walls aging and ignored
Buried resonance a wonderland of memories
So often she revisits his touch
His love for her sound enhanced curvature
As gentile bow caressed the twines of her soul
Coalescing as partners in manifest passion
How inviting the travels
Bringing his genius to masses of devotion
Even as sadness filled each concert hall
As curtains came down amidst applause
Dying in his sleep
His hands held gently atop the bridge to her heart
She felt his heartbeat racing
Until his final encore’s breath
Allowed the closing of loving eyes
How quiet emotion remains latent
Embraced upon the maestro’s body dark
Her strings lapsing finally
Into their own repose
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One time I had occasion to visit the rural home of a quirky Fairmont State University professor for a meeting of the state chapter of The World Future Society I was president of. Around the house, he and his wife had gathered antiques from the hills and hollows. He brought out a "fiddle" that he said he had, "traded another fiddle for with an old man up on a mountain."
Had others and me look through the scroll opening and I could make out what looked like "Stradivarius" on the backside. And then, he took out a bow and played a few notes for those of us there. A thrill went down my spine as I heard the full glorious tone of that violin played by an amateur. It made me believe that he may have had the real thing.
Ron