Every few months
my father remembers his violin.
We will take down the case
and slide back the locks
blow dust off
the cracked red varnish.
I lift it, so light,
from the frayed green silk
and hold it on my knee,
supporting its neck
as I pluck and tune loose strings
and place it under his chin.

The bow finds the old groove
in the rosin, deep as a cart rut,
releasing the scent of a pine forest
cooling after a hot day.
I try to steady his hand
resting the bow on the strings.
He’s listening acutely
for the sounds of birdsong
returning in the evening shade,
a siskin dipping between the trees,
hovering
as his once good bowing arm.