and the wooden panes of it
were lacquered by time in many layers
within the piece stood a solitary sound post
like a ringmaster at a circus calls out procedings
the scroll antique and the neck polished pale
by the shadows of those masters gone
each one a minstrel in his day and a seer of the future
silent now
the bow giving birth to a plumage of rosin roiling in a desert storm
and the sound crafted as if from a place so remote
only a magician could conjure it
and give it wings
Flynnpoetry 