A man works each day

in the shop below his home.

He bends wood to shape,

carves holes for sound,

pulls string from tail to scroll,

then draws bow to test the tune.


Years pass,

he’s gone now

but his work lives on

in the soul of each note it sounds

as she plays on these tired strings.


The violin is a gift

from her dad, she’s had

it since she was little,

when he found it

forgotten in the dust

of some old pawn shop.


He still lives

to watch her play

a few sweet notes,

and the times

when his wet eyes

catch her gaze.


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