Some days, I would rather wait tables.
Or stay home and bake pies
And ride a bike through the woods.
But if I am here for too long
I stare at planes crossing the sky.
And if I haven’t heard the fiddles and harp
Whistle and drums whirling around the gamba
I yearn for them.
If it were only the instruments
But it is not.
It is closed eyes and bowed heads
The twisted fingers and ringing strings.
It is not the music, it is the making of music
That courses through us, feeds us,
And drenches our souls.
–Carolyn Anderson Surrick