A Fireside Performance

The beauty in her form
was evermore pronounced
by the translation of ink from paper
as soft poetry of violins
wove metaphors even if,
only for her pleasure.
The voices of woodwinds eagerly followed,
disclosing love notes written for her ears.
Crackling, writhing, the evening fire took cue,
when the wind swept off to dance alone,
flickering forth a bold proposal
asking her shadow for the next dance.
Every stroke of the bow
masterful
soaked in never static color
painted for us a portrait of
the fading night, finally,
dabbing the corners with reflective meaning
So that now I sit in front, of them,
with eyes closed.