Sometimes I forget I am a musician –
the way an ant probably forgets
it is an ant.
It comes as postscript,
once I’ve already introduced myself and the words
“I’m a writer” have been repeated
to the thousandth person to ask.
I wonder why I consider it
a P.S. at the end of my autobiography –
this ability to hold a violin
and somehow convince it to speak –
and then I remember how it feels
to hold a pen over paper,
so much like holding a bow over strings,
and I realize there is more than one way
to make music.