I look at you, my friend,
my irritant, and I think
you are very like myself.
The songs you sing beneath my critical ear
are the sounds of my own voice
rasping or calling or yearning
or scratching or winging in
an always reaching toward the sublime--
which (through us, at any rate) is unattainable.
I have written about my violinist wife and her similar feelings. I have heard this poem often with different words, but there is another poem that those who hear you and Barbara play would write. It is of beauty, love, and the wonder of being transported to all of the places that music, especially violin music, takes us.
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