The notes are sweet, they fill the air
Singing softly, the woodwork hums
Gently swaying without a care
Up the stings, my fingers drum
Eyes shut, bow hand breathes
Finger tips trill, wrist vibratos
Up, down, around, the notes will weave
Short, quick, stop, the notes staccato
The instrument shakes, while projecting the sound
Dynamics changing, has an effect
Loud as can be, on my ears the pitch pounds
But then, soft tone mirrors and reflects
My violin is, the most precious thing
The music I make lets my heart sing
-Brooklynn Bosworth
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