After his stroke

the luthier

came to our beach picnic

with six violins.

 

Because each had been tortured

into silence by young hands,

he tossed their husks

one at a time

into the dying center of our bonfire.

 

In the oranging light

of the early February sunset,

we watched them roast

our kebabs and hot dogs,

a hundred years of snowmelt

smoking out of the spruce soundboards,

fifty years of childhood

rising out of the circle

of our eyes

and blowing into the infinite

serenity of the sea.