The Musician

He is a man of few words.
When he speaks, I wonder if Heaven is present,
For the rhythm in  his voice 
Is unlike anything I have ever heard.
He has a way to cause the world to still
And stare and listen to the wonder,
The magic within his sound, his voice,
His whisper but a hidden thrill. 
Yet he has no trouble in letting what he feels known;
For his voice, his desires, his emotions-
They all are spoken in the music he makes
With the swiftest fingers Heaven has to loan. 
I hear his joys and sorrows within the instrument,
His heart surely racing as quickly as his touch
Over the strings of his handmade cello,
A smirk in his eyes as he realizes others' merriment
By the magic and music he has created from his soul,
The notes and tempo within as he graces the bow
Over his work, his delight, his voice.
His music is greater wealth than silver or gold
As he lulls little children to dreaming sleep
With music from their guardian angels,
A voice reaching their curious hearts,
A slow song they forever keep
Within their mind, within their being,
Desiring nothing but to forever know
How happiness can be heard through the music,
Slender fingers allowing others to know their grieving. 
He does not have need to speak but  few words,
For all he has to tell is within his music.
His magic gives a voice to what he cannot say,
One that is waiting and wishing and wanting to be heard.