String fingers move like
little flesh bows, sliding and sailing
across the neck of an old acoustic guitar,
tempting the strings ever so
ethereally, each cord that finds itself trapped beneath one,
taught like a tight-rope and taunting the others to find your next move—
a sound that seeks the surreal—even in daylight—
in a dance of warm vibration that rocks me home.
Your elbow juts out just so
I can catch it silhouetted
against the early afternoon lull, the light
the little French doors’ squares
let in; the boundaries of your other
arm edging first East, then West,
cutting out the clarity of stillness.
Completely, mindlessly engulfed
by the task,
your neck strains visibly
at each high note,
but an ultimate calm
coalesces with the sun, bathing you in an
I reach out to touch it,
But know it is not mine to hold.