The baroque cello

The case was dusty, the clasps rusty.
She hesitated, fearful, wondering.
More than three hundred years’ skilled craftsmanship
in wood and horse hair.
Might be better not to open — a kind of Pandora’s box,
or, worse, a crumbled pumpkin and dead rats.
No magic transformation, ball gown and soft kid shoes,
but crumpled dreams, stars fallen from the sky.
So maybe better not to try.
She hesitated, curious, imagining.
Then dared. Undid the clasps, gently opened,
smiled in delight at what she saw.
Dark wood, gracious curves, slender F-holes
a long neck, magnificent carving on the scroll
in wood paler than the body, and four gut strings slackly strung.
She lifted the cello from its case, propped it on a chair.
Took out the bow, tapped it, testing for rosin.
Yes, a small cloud drifted into the air.
Now for the strings. What pitch would they hold?
Plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk.
She sat down, fitting the cello between her knees
encircling it with her arms, resting the body against her body.
Drew the bow full length across each string in turn.
Time stops. From out the shadows dance
figures in periwigs, and yes, the ball gowns glide
across the floor, while gigue and sarabande sing.
Her sister, standing in the doorway, listens, delighted.
Hums, ‘Music for a while
Shall all thy cares beguile’.
Unaccompanied Bach begins, clouds of sound resound...
Who can retell, record, such a rapture?