The Instrument
He played a tune
On his perfect violin
Living things
Remembered
Made his fingers move
Hard days
He began to smile
Soft days blowing
Down memories laneway
Riddling him awhile
Why a wooden thing
Should outlive its master
And why he hadn’t yet
Mastered a wooden thing
Faintly, then it sprang to mind
That he was an instrument of
The Divine
Something that would go on
Forever
And reach far back in time
Just a bellow, bow, string
Or key of a harmony emerging
From the ocean of the unseen
A vibrating light
Shimmering under
a pale horizon
*******************
*******************
__________________
Too much intellectual pride and not enough intellectual beauty
To Thine own Self be True
The Frost performs its secret ministry,Unhelped by any wind. Samuel Taylor Coleridge
|