Ode to a Broken Violin

There lies my violin, 

made on sleepless eves, 

conjuring dream with

nimble fingers and bow.

Of kite string and mop-handle, 

bow fashioned from 

a willow's branch, 

broken. 

Symphonies I led, 

solos for dinner parties. 

An Orpheus-lad I was. 

Changing rivers' course, 

gathering forests, 

swerving stars from 

the First-Mover's intent, 

broken. 

Come dream, 

peel away 

dreamless 

eves.