Chaconne

He walks along in personal space

- now - worry a lot,

because there’s a violin case in his left hand.

You never know what’s in a case like that!?

The man stands up and grunts, and starts.

He lightens up strings

as if Bach is here, now,

in present tense: string-tense: a sigh.

Hear sixty three repeating bases,

respectful, alert:

stabbing a bow;

roundabout bow

of melody, rhythm and chord.

Like Hopkins he springs

triumphantly tragic;

grief in Bach’s pain!

Alone! And hear an elbow pull

become scratched - a touch

of homecoming earth-time;

heavenly business.

A solitary man gyrates

and puppets in dance,

grieving, he’s busy,

- a lonely string screams:

so catching and real – Bach’s wife’s death.

Let’s grieve like a Bach;

screech in a bow-string,

grieving vibration.

But Bach is up now – lifting now,

envisioning hope.

Play us to ecstasy:

Heaven and Earth!

Has anything changed since last breath?

A man and his bow,

back in its case, away, walking away

from intimate personal space.