Swirling water, edged white and ragged,
Twirling in a spiral. Aqueous threads encircling an invisible spool,
Drawing down, deep
Seeking the exit, the bottom of the spool, to rejoin its source.
Churned and turned, elements recombining, similar, yet different.
Some things the same, others changed,
From sample to sample.
Perfect skein, wound by mechanical hands to form a sphere of thread.
Wine staining white fabric, a vital splash
Of colour against the stark, the empty,
With every movement of her nimble fingers,
The click of needles,
The skein unwinds, giving up its perfection,
As it diminishes. Yet, from its imperfections, something new comes to be.
Imperfect, yes. Made by human hands. Containing flaws and inconsistencies.
Empty page, the canvas of potential,
Infinite possibilities still to be realized.
Yet, only when it is stained by pencil, by ink, do those potentialities come through.
Each example so wholely different from the next,
Filtered through writer's eyes.
Subjectivity defines and determines, sets values and describes,
Every circumstance, every person, every object -
Many minds may set down their thoughts on the same subject,
But each description is that writer's own
Inspiration. Born out of knowledge, and experience, and belief.
Music on the music stand, hands poised above the keyboard,
Ready to ring warm melodies from cool ivory and ebony.
Notes scrawled down centuries before in a language of symbols,
Yet, no performance is identical. No matter the composer's intention,
the original idea,
Control is ceded to performers, once the score is complete.
The types of notes and rests, the phrasings
Other directions are but guidance.
Multitudes of hands through the centuries contine to shape and craft
The clay of sound upon the potter's wheel of the instrument.
No two results the same.
Individuality transcends plurality across the centuries.