viol

wherever music comes from,
it must come through an instrument.
perhaps that is why we love the instrument best
which is most like us—

a long neck,
a throat that loves touch,
gut,
a body that resonates—

and life, the bow of hair and wood
which works us through the necessary cacophonous hours,
which welds dark and light into one deep tone,
which plays us, reluctant, into music.

moya cannon (1956)