The luthier

He hears in his head the rich, sweet note that has never been heard. The single, slow stroke from the bow sustained, before the bow is conceived.

How can it be brought forth? he wonders.

His heels crunch fallen leaves on the forest trail. His right hand on his cane, his left caressing the bark of a maple tree. His fingers climb the trunk, listening for the pulse of sap that flows inside like blood. High above, leaves soak in sunlight. Below, roots plunge with thirst. Will you locate this note with me? he whispers. Will you sacrifice yourself for a sound?

The note exists, but not yet. It waits. It will be called forth only by an instrument equal in beauty to itself. Only then will it be extracted from where it resides.


We create, or we discover what has always been, and no matter, it is the same. What before Abraham was, sings patiently in silence. This is harmony.

two faces

Faces, or a vase. Never both at once.

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