Home Inside A Violin Poem by Hattie Wilcox

I'm home inside a violin
asleep in the dark hole
until the case is opened
I'm awakened by the squeak
and screech of a 4-year-old's
chubby hand on the bow

swept up next in a brush with a kiss
the swish of hair and strings
the swell, ebb and flow of a virtuoso
the perfumed hair whispers
to the barely-there
strap of a red satin dress

the chop of a hollerer from the hills
the boom of boot stomps
pounding a wood-plank floor
every day loved and cradled
tucked under a chin
against the warmth of skin

hovering above a shoulder
a jostling ride, rocking
end to end in the box
oh the sweat, the grunting
the depths, the rhythm
the strain of the offering
breathing someone's soul