Love Poem| Kendall Pack

Strings

I am enamored with the strings of life,
Which is not to say yarn or thread,
But strings.
Not the strings you sever from clothing when they have become too long.
Or the strings decapitated from blankets and quilts,
Once they are sewn as the finishing slice.
Not at all these strings that hang as decorations,
For a merry Christmas,
Or a churlish Halloween.
These are not the strings that I adore.

I find passionate art springs from strings,
The ones which I methodically mention.
They rise and fall with each stroke across,
But only a master can make them sing,
At least in tune.
I am no master, I am no prodigy of the string.
More the keeper of twine and wire, unfit for the strings.
Yet for eleven years I studied and failed.
Finally I gave it up with a hatred in mind.

But I have renewed my endeavor to master,
To sweep my bow across the strings,
To release the music I could once command.
But music that I could not hear.
Love is neccessary to fight for art.
Love is essential to the music I once abhored,
Now adored and kept in my mind,
Endlessly spinning a concerto of sundry instruments.
I sit in the middle, holding beneath my chin,
The violin.
The strings in perfect tune,
And I in perfect solace.