Soloist

It is only windy on days when I must carry an orchid
Says the priest as his way of cursing.
Once, he wept when the audience began to clap
Between movements—even after the head violin had motioned
With his bow held hand that he was not at all reluctant
To make the exchange on faith. His grey eyes stare out at the audience
And betray a sense that she cares little for what he says anymore
Despite the weight of her left hand and the curving letters
Of her last name. In this frenzy—and sometimes they would say,
Seven days with four seasons—the room is filled
With the sounds of polishing glass. If this man in audience of the holy man
In his audience had ever truly known, the way he feigned
With his eyes, then he would have never risen his glass in the dark
As he once had.