She is a runaway
out of place
with a beautiful
violin case.

A hungry hand holds
the short bow,
not made to hunt
but born to make
more music.

It plays,
drawing back
and letting loose
the vibrating strings.

The flow of sound
solidly pierces
all of those
within hearing distance.

When she was younger
and could not
find her slumber
she sat
on a burnt black stump
practicing
to the point
of satisfaction,
as close to perfection
that she could come.

Till, no one
could find any imperfection.
Now the streets sound
with the melody of her
musical confession,
this deep possession
of poetic fury
in the flurry
of changing cords.

The music soothes
the sick storm
that swarms
her troubled mind.

She plays as passersby’s
pass her fives
or drop dollars and dimes
for her music.

She plays one smile at a time
searching for a sign
but so far all she finds
are silent stares
of the strangers passing there
as she struggles to share
the ballet of her balancing sounds.