A Labor Day Poem

Building a violin begins

with a walk in the woods

to choose the sacrificial tree.

A saw blade bites, the tree

falls, forsaking its roots.

Sawn boards dry, each one,

tapped, has its own voice

The violin plates, front and back,

marry, gain ribs and neck,

pegs and varnish, gleaming,

lose all semblance of raw wood

but for that sweet maple voice.

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