A Little Song

Pause, pause, here it comes, pause, gooooooo...
The bow pulled gently and tentatively across the string
The fingers reaching out to press unknowingly into the fingerboard
The first note cracks gently, begging for real emotion
Asking to be made to sing

The next note is bowed a little more intense, backing off quickly
The cellist mumbles a little "sorry" for the mistake as the cello squeals
And redraws the bow slowly and sweetly across the strings
And the cello softly starts its song

It's always slow at first, nimble fingers playing sweetly, softly
Tight vibrato making the notes each ring gently, passing the introduction
Moving slowly through the movements, each new one finding a new depth,
A new emotion of love, of care, or sadness, and hate.

Each feeling different and changing, and so expressive,
Desperately trying to say so much in so few measures.
But the last movement is coming up quickly,
And neither the cellist nor the cello can starve it off.

The first notes in the movement are intense, they rise and drop quickly.
The vibrato is quicker and the notes are shorter, but there are so many of them.
The song speeds up rapidly and the cello is begging for the resolution.
The cellist pauses a second, readying to jump to the climax of the song.

A sudden shove down and a flying of fingers into a melodic line
The cello pants, keeping up with the sweetly rising notes
And all of a sudden hits the high one and jumps on it
Screaming its pure beauty, ringing out without end

The notes slow down, and the vibrato widens to make the feeling last
But slowly the notes descend downwards as the bow takes a slower movement
Each next note relishing in the ecstasy of that one climax

Hitting the lowest note on the least sensitive string, the bow runs out
The cello takes a breath, tiredly, as if rousing from complete hibernation
And sits there, still remembering the last song played, and mutters a quiet thanks
That extends beyond words to only music

"You're welcome," the cellist says, placing the cello neatly to bed.
Tucked away lovingly in its case, each part of it having received care.
The cello can await the next song, the beauty of the morning, the ecstasy of love,
And living.