Summer’s done and leaves are gone:
branches bare, and death’s begun
to take its toll on the living one
whose active hands are not yet done.
Sound, summoned from somewhere deep inside,
strikes from string an imaginary ride
upon vibrations far and wide.
Here is life, and death must hide.
While bare branches inspire a sparse domain
‘twixt Bach and Perlman’s music without name,
some strenuous feat is being strewn upon a stringy frame
as spider spins his precious game.
Bare-branched strains give way to woven strands
so, through ages, some vivid virtuoso stands
to spin a web of Stradivarius demands;
Vivaldi’s winter surrounds Samuelsen’s hands.