A Thirsty Soul
I was but five, when first twas heard Meditation's sweet refrain.
and the magic of the ancient violin, as the harmonious notes
began to rain.
As I travel with a teary eye back to a more sensitive time,
I recall, it was not a diminutive segment of my nursery rhyme.
Lost in a trance of supreme transparency, he strolled back
drawing with his bow, melodic appreciation to a baby's heart
for what it's worth
twas the impassioned plea,
for a youthful heart set free.
Twas but his parlance to a thirsty soul
struck to muteness, by my beloved father's soliloqual roll.
Was but my time with him to feel ever so near
and not a tangibility on earth to fear.