His heavy soiled worn
work boots, are set aside on
the woven mat in the corner of the room,
behind him.

Picking up the violin and bow,  with rosin
sticking, tuning as he moves across the open, lofted
space
in preparation of play.  And by playing,
the chatter and noise of his work day far and away,
from this private space were no longer a distraction.  They were behind him,
now he had completed a new song, knew it by heart,
as it was from his…
with the sounds and notes soaring above the vaulted
ceiling rafters, he was getting that feeling that comes
with his play.

He began to dance for his audience of One.
the music was his, but with it he asked for forgiveness,
for his thoughtless ways on those days when he cared not for,
any other living soul than his own. Then a heaviness in
the flow, the rhythm, lead him to a place where he knew he
was forgiven now and forever from before he or this song,
were ever birthed.

He dreams Celtic.

Arms moving as he played, feet lifting and placed,
jumping from note to note, to land and lift again. And again.

Lightly.

He dreams Celtic.

He paused, so did his music as did his play
and he stared his work boots down.
Then he quickly he began again fingers dancing over
the strings,
as feet danced across the floor, he knew
that in playing his music there was joy,
in his past there was a history,
that told a story every-time
he played
because he dreams Celtic.

Though the day may tax him,
it was able to be tamed, for
his dreams of music are reality
and he dreams Celtic.


DWE 2013-04-21