Before the music, there is this.
Repairs. Restoration. Restoration.
New strings. A tightening of loose woods.
For all things come undone
and with time and work,
all things can be remade.
About this poem
I am thinking this morning of how much will have to be restarted. How much lost will have to be begun anew? How much lost will have to be replaced? And not knowing when or how that hard work can begin.
It is a strange time. It can be done. And it begins with believing it can be done. Just like the restoration of anything.
The picture was taken in the shop below my studio, where my friend Jeff Anderson restores instruments like violins, guitars, and mandolins. A place of magic.