Strings taunt, circled to it’s embrace,
Only hands of knowing, to hear only once.
As if listening to my daughters first cry,
Yes there be a tear in my eye.

If only the movement of the instruments motions,
And the heart not in the bow, not in the solutions.

I’ll never forget opening night, what a gala,
What a delight, to see and hear this viola.

Still stirs my heart, the wish that you where there,
The hope, you may know, but you were not there.

The viola you’ve heard and know,
Hands of an angel, you’ll till the earth.
Plants and flowers, much you will grow,
The labor of loneliness, and books on the shelf.
More to read, more to prepare for yourself,
Mixed in a bowl, stirred from birth.
Circled to it’s ending,
From the beginning,
Hands of knowing.

The silence between the pieces, legs crossed,
Arms poised as at rest.
Starts another segment or two, in it’s wake,
Tire not, forced upon.

Oven on, to know the temperature, legs crossed,
Arms poised as at rest.
Starts my heart, just for you, I wake,
Tire not, forced upon.
Symphony at dusk, scene just,
Served when done, seasoned just.

©2004, Ron Globe