Whisk across the solace of the Woods.
And, lo! The Cuckoo begins to whistle.
Patiently knocks on Horizon’s door;
The Sky plays along the Hues in anticipation.
Fends to peek;
Look at Morning’s guest tread in.
A vagabond Breeze frisks the veins of the Trees;
Stride aside to behold the grand entree.
Fingers on the strings
The eyes close out
Balanced under the chin
The Bow is ready to enchant;
Necks bend over;
Clouds line silver;
Thence takes over
Madness…. … .. .
The Violin remains gone
Yet the eyes are shut the same.
I saw him play his fingers
To keep himself sane.