Poetry Porch: Poetry


by Kevin Shyne

Laura, age 13, first chair violin,
seats her instrument beneath her chin.
Suspended on a string, a girl
swings above a woman’s world.

Across the strings she sweeps her bow
to liberate arpeggios.
Her tremulous vibratos make
the dotted half and whole notes ache.
Her nimble fingers search and find
the pulse that Mozart left behind.

She takes the lead and soars
beyond the realm of scale and metronome
as if she hears an overture
of emotions hers and hers alone.
Never has she felt so sure
of bowmanship and fingercraft.
This brave new world is vast.
Across the universe she flies, unafraid
of mastering the music by being played.

At Laura’s age has anybody ever known
the difference between flight and falling like a stone?
She could be plummeting. No one would know,
except a man in the second row.
He would rush the stage, cause a scene, but no . . .
how hard to have a daughter, age 13, and let her go.

Copyright © 2016 by Kevin Shyne.