His eyes sparkled
He gently closed his eyelids, his face smiled
He opened his eyes
And began to create
I watched him tenderly touch the wood
With the master’s touch it would become
Something more
Something beautiful
Perfect strokes came in rhythm
Each carving tool had a specific purpose
The shavings gently drifted to my feet
I would come back
Soaking in the steady rhythm
Soaking in the peace
A day
Then another
Sometimes I would watch his hands
Calloused from hard work and years
Yet gentle
Other times, I studied his face
Wrinkled with age and very thoughtful
Yet kind, kinder than the kindest soul
And happy
The aroma in the air
A mixture of worn wood and aged spice and sweet apples
Then one day,
It was finished
Created
Brought to birth
A sweet melodic, harmonious, beautiful
Violin

**************

His brow furrowed
He concentrated, in thought
He listened, a smile forming on his face
And it began to come
I watched him take a pure white paper in his hand
With the other, a quill of black ink
With the master’s touch it would become
Something more
Something beautiful
Perfect strokes of rhythm
Not a stain of black
but a cascade of notes, each with a specific purpose
When present for the miraculous gift
I would watch
In awe
A blank paper come to life
I soaked in the peaceful serenity
The aroma in the air
A mixture of withered parchment and warm wax and tart blueberries
His hands moved swiftly across the page
He would stop, close his eyes, breathe in, then out
Open his eyes and go on
Happy, lifting other’s hearts
He would work day in, day out
It would suddenly come in revelated spurts
And finally it was
Finished, complete
Brought to birth
Sweet harmonious melodies
Beautiful
Music