morning poem, january 15, 2016

In hand

The neck of the guitar felt right

This thick, this wide, this long

Every inch, every atom

Recorded in the deepest lines of his brain

This one unchanging thing

Squeezed, gripped, worked over, caressed

For forty years

Almost another limb to him

Almost an extension of his fingers, his voice, his imagination

And now, at this age, even

He works to stretch further, move faster

To hear and discern

Articulate and modulate

To extend life

To remember.

 

Copyright 2015

 

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