He sits forward on the sofa,
One leg stretched out, the
Other bent, as he hunches
Over his guitar, eyes closed,
A man bent on intimacy.
His hand gently cradles the
Slender neck as his fingers
Dance, teasing and coaxing
Chords from strings that sing
Under his knowing caress.
He starts to sing along, his
Voice smoky and rough, then
Smooth and bluesy; and
It’s poetry, and you know he
Means it, and it moves you.
Something happens then, a
Wonderful, almost magical
Something I can’t help but
Envy, a merging I’m not sure
I can describe, but I’ll try.
He enters the music, and the
Music captures him, and for
That moment, you see him
Clearly, see him as he is right
Then, while the music plays,
And realize he’s God’s special
Instrument. He is his music.
Guitar, poet’s soul, voice: a
Trinity indivisible, born to give
Life to the heart of the song.
