Opus

In my world,                                                                                        
my world, a world of beauty and strength,                                    
we have a gift.                                                                                       

It is precious,                                                                                       
a gift of music, how our souls bear,                                                 
it’s perception.                                                                                    
I have seen worlds,                                                                            
where they 'speak' with 'lips' 
and ‘tongues’ for ‘words’.                                                                  

But it is said,                                                                                         
that before a child’s eyelashes open,                                             
a song is sung.                                                                                      
The Goddesses                                                                                    
Ritornelle and Melody breathe their                                              
soul into soul.                                                                                      

My mother’s,                                                                                       
Teardrops, wide, perfectly shaped, streamed down her            
faerylike face.                                                                                      
Her Violin,
caressed, transposed from dull brown wood to                           
translucent, turquoise ice.                                                                

It wept with
my mother, melting in the new dawn
of the new day.
The strings wailed,
a pitiful sigh. Her bow sang
a cantillate.

Her body swayed,
side to side, with ballerina pointe,
her back arched,
with rising pitch and intensity.
She shuddered,
And slouched in diminuendo.

Her violin,
a pool of cool water at her feet
and she sank
to her knees, her golden hair swimming,
in the fragments.

She whirled her hands,
the water gliding and changing,
into an ‘s’
of red metal and violin bow.

She played it,
 differently this time. Short staccato,
accented
notes, and the clashing of violin
 chords,
 the shrill shout,
of defiance and untold rage,
her trills faster,
 and faster, her eyes radiated
  outrage and hatred.
 She screeched an
 animalistic and guttural sound,
 and the earth
growled in its response,
 as she threw her violin to the floor,
 and watched it smash,
into an abundance of tiny red metal pieces.

You see,
the goddesses had never given a chance to me
to start or whisper goodbye.
 And as I float among the stars,
I wish for her, my mother, to recognize
my nighttimes’ lullaby.