A Few Bars of Silence
The tip of her bow
rests on her shoulder.
Think rifle. Think willow,
invisible roots
drinking round the clock.
Think shepherd
under stars
that won’t let up.
I want to say Stop,
don’t move, everything
beautiful is here!
Even as I strive
to cling to this image
of the silent
violinist, pregnant
with every note
that ever was,
she chins the instrument,
leans into the wood
and plays.