Spirit?

A whisper
               mere rustle of wind or
an exhalation-how
can it have
consciousness
               yet

just below the threshold of
human perception
              it voiced

thought
vibrations, which
            her violin resonated with-
disquieting,
leaving her wondering
           who was out there,
invisible but
           present or prescient
perhaps decedent?

         “Dad?”

           her father an immigrant peasant
his passion for music
gifted to her-
           Dead Silence
she sighs,
 picks up her bow and
on her shoulder
         the violin’s “D” string
quivered

Author writes in New York City USA.
This includes poems, flash and hybrids.