Horsehair, metal and sheep intestine,
an unlikely way to start a poem,
even more unlikely to produce anything beautiful.
Yet beauty was made from nothing,
therefore these materials had a fighting chance.
Bow meets string, an Air dissipates on a sound wave
and penetrates my ear drum, floats along and
each note is unraveled and pieced together by my brain.
The melancholy cello sustains the note of dusk
a breath longer, longer still, and still the sun lingers,
unwilling to set before the last note ceases.
But day and night were also fashioned,
and beauty, alone, cannot stop time.
The last measure sustained, the final beat swallowed,
and the last grasp of a fiery orb let loose.
And music, at last, is free to rest.