Violins lift your eyes,
brushing your bangs aside.
Then climbing the green hillsides,
swiping away dry nettles.
Vibrating over blades of grass
as you pluck out each note by ear,
slowly combing the rush of wind
into single, gentle strokes
of your arpeggio. Walking in
the soft clover woven in your mind, a spell
uttered inside your name, a voice
singing - you are beautiful praise.
Horns push forward in your chest
and there is no reason to fear,
your hands on these keys
find their way home.
Blanketed in its mossy tempo,
like a warm pear tree, blossoming.
You know the song, without knowing
how its melody sunk into your bones,
or why in that moment your body unfurls,
releasing peace like melting snow
into a spring stream.