Strings
A lonely fiddle, its strings once taut tense and
stretched, waiting to be tuned and played.
The limp horsehair bow, longs to be tightened
and drawn in sweet reverberations.
A grounded kite, too long flightless -
too long not tethered to laughter
and coaxed to fly in a summer sky
on the breath of smiles.
A forgotten puppet - still strung;
a keepsake perched like an ornament
that never moved, never danced and
never brought smiles nor tears
to those with inimitable imaginations,
waits patiently for a child to say,
"Daddy, will you help him dance once more?"
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