The Violin

My violin has two strings,
hope and uncertainty.
To play the one is to fill
the room with vibrant life
but then it echoes funny in the corners
and comes back wrong.
The other has no bright energy
but low, mournful reach
that sits and echos not,
not even in the closest corner,
yet disturbs to the very core of me.
If my bow strikes one then another
echoes meet perturbation,
and nothing better for it.
But should I pause,
then attend to not one string or the other
but to both, to fingers and the tension,
there is new sound — fresh,
neither wrong nor mournful,
not comfortable nor wretched,
but true
and that shall be — always —
enough.

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One Response to The Violin

  1. binzy says:

    Beautifully created poem !!

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