You asked me to listen to your violin
And so I did.
Gliding through the forest grass
Made sharper by a waxing moon
Out to the hill, overlooking
The brittle remnants of your grandfather's stable.
You wanted to go out at night
Because the world is hushed then
And the cacophony of life
Always dulls the emotions
From arts, or from other sources.
I sat beneath the monster oak
One hand playfully pawing at the tire
You swung on too long ago.
You clapsed the violin beneath your chin
Dulled rubber contrasting pear skin
But cherrywood matching freckles.
The bow held so tenuously
As we walked through the valley
At once became firm in your hand
As you drew it to the triangulation
Of your amber eyes, your steady fingers
And the pearlescent bladed strings.
The notes began to pulse out
Indigo strains melting into
A sheer, serpentine sky.
Passages took form and vanished
Like perhaps ghosts.
Rushes subdued themselves
Only to come forth once again
As if in a tantrum.
The fire gave way to the water
Only to call fo water's surrender
The two side volleying
Unable, unwilling to defeat the other.
And as I sat, silent, still,
Disturbing your performance as little as possible
A breeze came to play counterpoint.
As it washed my face
It carried with it the scent
Of your fragrance coalescing
With the first traces of dew.
Releasing that from my lungs
Truly tested my composure
In the sacrament of your song
And drew my breathing ragged.
So I sat in true wonder
At how all these things
Could have come true.
The hands with which you operated
Such a well-kept instrument.
The ears with which I heard
Such pleasurable, perfect playing.
The hearts with which we made
Such angels out of each other.
And the love.
The true, uncontestable, unyielding love.
You asked me to listen to your violin
And so I did.
But as you played I heard another
Song, that you could not have made.
Your fingers could never dance
To its frenzied fluttering.
And your will could never fight
The iron urge to curl up
And be born anew from its beauty.
Such music will never be heard
From a conscious ear
Not could it be penned, even
By the most facile composer.
And maybe it wasn't there at all
Perhaps it was an odd harmonic
I misheard and misinterpreted.
But whatever it was
I know that you did make it
And it did not come
From your violin.
copyright © 2008 Sean Shannon