A violin grew up in Brooklyn,
its master's hand commanding
rhythms crisp and clear,
like budding branches springing to life
in the dance of time.
Through tones of smoothest silk,
love's sweetness unfolded
like the petals of a rose.
Gershwin and Rachmaninoff
stirred the young master's soul,
soul of the 1920s,
violin his beloved companion.
Only the old violin knows
the rest of that musical story,
the story belonging to the boy
who knew, as I never did,
those Brooklyn roads.
Written by me on September 2, 2022.
