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His Fingers Dance
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.
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.