One was fire-red,
Hand-carved and new—
The local maker pried the wood 
From a torn-down church’s pew, 

The Devil’s instrument
Wrenched from the house of God. 
It answered merrily and clear 
Though my fingering was flawed; 

Bright and sharp as a young wine, 
They said, but it would mellow, 
And that I would grow into it.
The other one was yellow 

And nicked down at the chin,
A varnish of Baltic amber,
A one-piece back of tiger maple 
And a low, dark timbre. 

A century old, they said,
Its sound will never change. 
Rich and deep on G and D, 
Thin on the upper range— 

And how it came from the 
Old World Was anybody’s guess—
Light as an exile’s suitcase,
A belly of emptiness: 

That was the one I chose—
Not the one of flame—
And teachers turned in their practiced hands 
To see whence the sad notes came.