Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Dedicated to a Violinist I've Never Met

Her hands move as if sentient,
Sprightly-fingered things.
Her bow deftly draws music
From two sets of strings.

See her dance, understated,
Lithely keeping the time.
Her notes gust through my vanes,
Driving meter and rhyme.

Her red lips and white grin
Are almost too much;
Offer passionate music
With a jubilant touch.

Oh, to see inspiration
Shaped by her hands, so sure.
This show might look contrived
Without her presence pure.

She's more than a body
To warm some man's bed.
I want to know her
-The Performer- instead.

No comments:

Post a Comment