A Few Bars of Silence

The tip of her bow
rests on her shoulder.

Think rifle. Think willow,
invisible roots

drinking round the clock.
Think shepherd

under stars
that won’t let up.

I want to say Stop,
don’t move, everything

beautiful is here!
Even as I strive

to cling to this image
of the silent

violinist, pregnant
with every note

that ever was,
she chins the instrument,

leans into the wood
and plays.