The Violinist in the Lane

What you remember may not be what you know

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I recall the tunes of old she played,

Shattered tunes that yanked at the core–

Her bow glided, knew your soul.

We watched her as night fell,

Way too scared to call.

The strings told tales

Beautiful.

Lonesome.

Sad.

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She played each evening, when shadows fell.

Her tunes tales only you knew–

Bow dancing over strings

Calling. Reminding.

Once, I answered.

Her head–raised.

Her face–

None.

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