The Breath

You, violin, were a long time gestating, until
one morning in the busy workshop class
saturated with the soft purr of sawing,
the choof of chisels paring wood, the
gentle hiss of the perfectly set up scraper,
I checked the set of the glue on your body,
held up your plump wooden chamber,
top pierced precisely with a pair of f-holes.

Somewhere in the room, someone spoke,
I don’t know what: maybe What do I do next,
or Look at the volutes I’ve carved on this scroll,
and you spoke back. You sang in sympathy
with the sound, suddenly alive
between my midwife hands.