Fred Leavitt

To Diane

I.
My violin shrieks
and rends the air with lament
but look who wields the bow
don't blame the instrument

I write ill matched couplet, tinkly rhyme
but others, with words full-known to me
breathed life to Kubla Khan and Leda's swan
and the fair lake isle of Innisfree

I I.
My spirit was dormant, uninspired
listlessly played by those I knew
aimless drippings on a cluttered canvas
and then came you

Newfound emotions surged within me
for Gods can be made from fools
I knew beauty, passion, tender love
It's the worker, not the tools. 

{Fred Leavitt, fredlvtt@gmail.com}