Plowman’s Violin

In the plowman’s dark hands,

the shining wood of violin;

The old man dances as he plays.

Dust and weariness of work

fall away

like tones of music

cascading from the stage.

Weight of seven decades

and of soul

adds grace and gravity.

He prances through fields of tones

alive as flowers blooming in fertile earth.

Smooth and rapid bowing

musics the dancing floor liquid.

Dancers swim to rapid rhythms

the plowman builds like sowing seeds

toward harvest.

He bows the shining violin

and stamps his feet in dust of planting

tones and seeds toward harvest

in light like moonlight

toward harvest of the moon.

The plowman’s darkened hands,

shining wood, dance as he plays.

Tones of music

cascade from bow, from wood,

dancing toward harvest of liquid music.

Moonlight covers dancers

like dust of music harvest.

The old man stamps to his rhythm as he plays.

Tones of music like water falls

flood in moonlight dust,

dreams of dancing flowers,

fertile fields to harvest,

bowing tones beneath the moon.