There is a man who plays his music
as the mist rises from the cobbles of the waking streets
on his violin. He arrests your mind
as he plays,
not from the page, but from a galaxy where song is born
stirring a truth of belonging at the core of your being.
Only music deeply wrought can find this place—
a place that renders you transfixed, without voice.
It is rich with the chords of a life deeply lived
and the subscript melody dances a tune beyond where you are.
It takes you to a place you hadn’t expected to go,
in the chattering chaos of the cobbled street.
His case open for offerings of small change
is a picturesque incongruence with the captivation of his giving.
He has music in his eyes and reverence in his fingertips.
He is a prayer of gratitude to his music;
in tie and tailcoat he shows up to his performance as though he were playing
within the highest of cathedral walls
and with an orchestra of angels.
Perhaps he is.