She walked the ridge of twelve-mile creek
At evenings end each day.
I would hear her ore the meadow,
The many songs she loved to play.
The violin was her lover,
Companion for her searching soul.
She played with all her feeling,
To the valley far below.
In pitch her notes rang out their beauty,
Her bow in fever played the songs.
Bach’s concerto in D minor,
Made love to her, all evening long.
The classics were her favorite lovers,
In sweated play she had them all.
Drunken by the music’s flavor,
And every note she could recall.
Perhaps adagio or allegro,
Or any tempo in between.
She found the mystery of the pieces,
Painted them with notes unseen.
Her passion rose toward each ending,
A climax of perfected play,
And I would listen so intently,
For every note that came my way.
The valleys quiet of her music,
Which graced the ridge for many years.
I search for notes now never spoken,
Which will not come unto my ears.
Where she’s gone we’re left to wonder,
And why her music plays no more.
Now every evening there’s just silence,
Playing on this valleys floor.
What I would give for one rendition,
From her poetic soul which lived.
High above our little valley,
But plays no more from top the ridge.
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