Like a gifted
musician
you touch my waiting strings
and a cantata is written.

True,
your warm-up may vary,
but the strength of your melody
is consistent
and the poignancy of the recitative
never fails to make
the listener swoon

If only my hollow frame
could resist the tremors
your rhythm brings forth
and refuse the
delights
of your rippling descant.

But
I am merely instrument
and you the master hand,
and I await your next recital,
mute,
until you raise the bow.

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