Rosined, Arpeggioed, Perfected

By
Little hands and little eyes
Wide with wonder


Pressing down each note


A little off
A little screechy
Waiting for the harmony
Of that ancient violin
Carved with her grandfather's initials
To sing its vibrato
And let its music resonate against the old dark wood
She must wait



Until she can grow practiced
Her experience seasoned
To let her little fingers play that weathered violin
Whose song age has refined





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