Before clipping,
white tips measure,
bluntly, the time since
fingers last touched strings.
Each bright click marks
a sin of omission confessed,
a repentance.
I lift my violin -- tiger nut
from black hull-case --
and feel, between shoulder
and neck, the forgotten vibrations
of life renewed.
white tips measure,
bluntly, the time since
fingers last touched strings.
Each bright click marks
a sin of omission confessed,
a repentance.
I lift my violin -- tiger nut
from black hull-case --
and feel, between shoulder
and neck, the forgotten vibrations
of life renewed.
Barbara, a violinist, just nodded her head as I showed her this poem. She knows the cycle of omission and renewal quite well.
ReplyDeleteThanks for sharing it, Newell! From what I can tell, Barbara is very dedicated violinist.
DeleteAny poem called "Confession" is dear to my heart!
ReplyDeleteThanks, Thomas. Confession (in its various forms) is a gift, isn't it?
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