“Can you play that thing?” she asked, as I packed up to go.
“I can,” I answered. Her gray hair sparkling in the sun.
“Well, the music don’t play itself,” she replied.
“I can’t make any money here,” I said,
looking at the empty cup.
“Put that fiddle under your chin boy. Play something
gypsy. Something that moves.”
And as I played she began to dance. Bells on her
fingers tinkled in the breeze. Swaying and swirling,
her ragged clothes became beautiful, sequins of imagination
The people came and I fell in love with her that day.
She twirled as the music flowed, entwining together
to become one thing.
I could not compete with her beauty as she twirled
her last and I offered her the money from the cup, now full.
“You keep it boy,” she said with a smile.
“I only wanted to dance.”