from a flow of flying grace notes,
eighth notes sparking grace into a
split second alive with stillness,
illuminating a space where
the keenness of hearing becomes,
for an instant, sight, and we see
ourselves, our fiddles, rosin dust
frozen midair as if in time,
clear but transparent over the
years since we last let the music
carry us together, the years
before, when we had lived for it,
and all the music that led up
to this tiniest moment of
no music, unexpected yet
inevitable, called into
being not because of us but
so specifically through us,
that we hear unison now in
each other, in the flow of sound
skirling, twirling around again,
and drawing us rushing onward
No comments:
Post a Comment