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[personal profile] mintmeow
His Fingers Dance

His fingers dance, they make their way up and down the neck
Each chord plays the melody
His fingertips race, strumming vibrating strings, much like a spider.
His art is beautiful; he’s been working hard to find the perfect note.
I can see him wince, old battle scars, he faces.
But when the song rises to higher tones, a weight seems to come off his shoulders.
He is living sky high, on top of the world.
The melody sags, the notes are like falling rain.
I bow my head, feeling the calm, quiet peace of the moment.
The song is dead. Silence fills the spaces.
His eyes are watching me.
I look up to meet those light blue eyes.
Suddenly tears well in my eyes, burning, as I find the guitar in my hands.
I look down; the soft strings are the same,
The wood, so beautiful and polished, like the desert as it wrinkles beneath the wind’s blow
Like a snake skin hide.
Light reflected it winks at me, coaxing from me a sound.
I put my fingers in place, my thumb hovers over the strings, pulsing with energy.
I strum.
From that point on the melody takes off. I follow to the highs, sag to the lows, and again I hear the sound of falling rain.
But this is not my finger’s creation. Outside my gray window shines a blinding light, rain pours gently to help me in my quest.
I play my part, creating for them entrance, the music becomes the rain. The sun shines still.
He smiles; I know he’s watching me, like he did so long before. The light has renewed in me what was lost, germinating new hope.
I can play once more, the guitar calls me, and he calls me too. Now I can answer.

April 2011

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