The violin sits on the workbench,
the scars of age have not been repaired,
the finish here and there, is cracked.
The patina is still warm, almost glowing,
a thing well made at the start, a survivor
with beauty, despite the wear of ages.
New strings have been added, a strange contrast
to the battered wood. Bright and taut
eager for the bow.
The body bears no mark
to tell us it’s maker. His name has been lost to history.
It is simply, an old instrument,
a thing worth repairing, not for the fame
and fortune of a name,
but simply for the music still within.
About this poem.
It is easy, as we age and parts of us fail with age, to believe we have no value. But no, there is music within! Always.
The picture is of a violin I saw once in an instrument repair shop in Venice. It’s one of my favorite pictures I’ve ever taken. (There’s no accounting for taste.)