Yes, I know I may have an unhealthy attachment to violins in poetry. Oops.
A furrow of the brow,
Slight tension in the shoulders,
And then she drags the bow
Across the strings and begins,
And it melts from her form,
Her eyes sliding shut,
Mouth closed, a soft
Breathy sigh escaping
Briefly before she takes control
Of the tune again, twists it
As it unwillingly bends,
Forming it into the music
Notes printed neatly on the
Paper, inked in perfect rows.
She deals with this even as
The melody struggles to be
Free again, to taste that wonderful
Sweet taste of not knowing what
Note comes next, the entire thing
Completely and utterly unplanned.
But then she decides, fuck it,
And yanks the bow sharply across
The strings, a shrill sound exploding
Before her foot taps a sudden rhythm,
And she flips the page of her sheet
Music and begins to play, the tune
Different, this time, more... haunting.
And she listens to her heart and
Her violin and her scrawled music.
And then she truly plays, and
Her heart lifts and takes flight
And the melody flexes willingly,
The violin humming with happiness.
And this time she allows her eyes
To close, and this time,
She is free.