there is a violin playing
like a desolate dove cooing
feather ruffled beckoning
it is the quivering voice
of an inner emotion
the wrist held too tight
choking the flow of melody
a long lonely echo filtered
through the song of spring
the scent of the chord
plucks at the mind causing
remembrance of smiling lips
pursed to blow a gentle breath
upon my flushed cheeks
a sweet orchid moment of love
the days gone to our youth
while the symphony still plays
it is no longer our libretto
change is the rhythm of time
we have become its constants
metered ticks of life’s metronome
©2012, Donald Harbour
Donald Harbour Poetry 
Life is a strange old thing, I think of it as a bucket of water with a hole in it that slowly leaks; when the water is all gone that’s it. The length of life is determined by the size of hole in your bucket. I have heard that if you marry the right woman the hole in your bucket will reduce somewhat. Sorry for rambling, I like the poem, it leaves you with a couple of interpretations to flirt with.
LikeLike